


Nobody Wants to Be in School Forever

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, High School, M/M, Modern Era, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1275823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie Luciano’s senior year is comprised of disciplinary problems, teenage heartache, and mandatory sessions with the guidance counselor, Arnold Rothstein. Yet AR is too wrapped up in his own divorce and rapidly developing friendship with English teacher Margaret Rohan to be much help to his students. Jimmy Darmody is worried about college admissions after a leg injury keeps him off the football team. Meyer Lansky is studying too hard, Al and Frank Capone are picking fights, and principal Nelson Van Alden is attempting to keep his students in line. With early mornings, raging hormones, and eccentric faculty, everything is guaranteed to go amiss in this high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for narrowing the age gaps of several characters. Something had to be done to get them all in school at the same time.
> 
> Also sorry this took me forever to finish. Hopefully subsequent chapters won't take me as long to write.

Everything stank of weed and Axe Body Spray and the old rubber of bus seats that had been in use since the late 80s. It was still dark outside. A few kids mumbled to one another, but most had their eyes glued to their phones, if their eyes were open at all. Muffled music from somebody’s too-loud headphones played across the aisle, but Charlie couldn’t tell the song. All he could hear was the pounding bass. 

He slouched lower and lower in his seat, until his shoulders were flat against the bottom. His lanky legs crunched up in the narrow space between seats. It wasn’t comfortable, but he was too tired to care. 

“Hey Mey…” Charlie elbowed the smaller boy next to him. “What if I don’t get off the bus? What if I just never move again? Would they let me stay here?” 

Meyer—who had a textbook open on his lap—glanced down at Charlie. There were dark bags beneath his eyes, looking like it took all his energy just to keep his lids up. “Close your eyes,” he said, the threat of a yawn behind every word. “I’ll wake you when we get there.” 

He returned to studying, but Charlie was not satisfied with that answer. As always, he persisted. “I’m not talkin’ about a nap. I’m talkin’ about livin’ on this bus seat for the rest of my life. D’you think I could do it?” 

In his state of exhaustion, the hypothetical made perfect sense to Charlie. But not to Meyer, who didn’t even look up. “You can’t live on the bus. You have to graduate and go do things. Now will you let me study, so that I can graduate and do things, too?” 

The thought of graduation made Charlie sink even lower. If high school bummed him out, graduation made him feel worse. At least in high school, they let him slip by with his mediocrity intact. His grades were shit— _you’re a bright boy, Charlie, but you need to apply yourself,_ had been a frequent phrase since the 5th grade—and his disciplinary record was reaching encyclopedic lengths. School wasn’t for him; nobody seemed to believe otherwise, though. 

He wanted out. He wanted to leave the halls and the bells and the way too early mornings. He never wanted to feel the cold metal of a locker door as he shoved someone into it or was thrown against it himself. He didn’t want the stiffness of Principal Van Alden’s office chairs that always followed. 

But he didn’t know where else to go and he didn’t want to go there alone.  It would be weird, graduating without Meyer. The kid was only a sophomore, but they’d grown up together. They rode the bus together, spent nights at each other’s houses, and bummed around together every weekend. Sometimes Meyer did homework while Charlie watched, smoking out of his bedroom window so his parents wouldn’t smell it. Other times, they wandered the streets, talking, kicking at garbage, and finding shit to do that they shouldn’t do. If Meyer learned anything from Charlie, it was how to run like hell at the first sign of cops. And how to steal an extra large Slurpee from 7-11 without anybody noticing. 

His life was lived in crowded hallways, too-small apartments, and cracking sidewalks at dusk; all those places included Meyer at his side. 

“You could live on this seat with me,” he whispered. Thoughts of college rejection, parental disappointment, and best friend separation pressed down on him. 

“No, I really can’t,” Meyer shot back. “Because I have a history test and you are keeping me from studying.” 

The unsteady lurching of the bus was making him sick to his stomach; Charlie zipped his sweatshirt all the way up to his chin as he sunk deeper into the fabric. 

“Yeah, but Meyer—”

“Charlie—” 

“No, Mey, listen—”

“Charlie— Hey! What the fuck!” 

Before Meyer could realize what was happening, Charlie snatched the textbook from his lap. He shut the page on his thumb and locked his arms across the cover, sealing it to his chest and out of Meyer’s clutches. This was punishment for ignoring him. No one ignored Charlie Luciano and got away with it—least of all, Meyer Lansky. The boy fumed and cursed and clawed at Charlie, who just pushed him away with a rough nudge of his shoulder.

“Do not make me gouge your eyeballs from your head,” Meyer said in a low, dangerous voice. Charlie only beamed at him, petulant and confrontational and absolutely charming in his arrogance. 

“Lemme quiz you or somethin’. All I’m tryin’ to do.” The placating sweetness dripped from his voice as he thumbed through the pages of his friend’s textbook. 

Meyer still looked murderous, but he softened at Charlie’s promise and reclined against the rubbery seat in acquiescence. “Start with the Progressive Era and go from there.” 

Charlie leaned the textbook against the bus seat, propping it against a Sharpie drawing of an ejaculating penis. He skimmed the page, while Meyer slumped against his shoulder with a tired grunt. Charlie fought a smile as he flipped through the end of the 1800s. 

“Okay. Tell me about Ida Tarbell,” Charlie began, absently kicking the seat in front of him with the tip of his worn sneaker, until the kid finally turned around and snapped, “Can you not?”

“We’re tryin’ to learn about Ida fuckin’ Tarbell here, fuck off!” Charlie stomped the back of the seat with the heel of his foot. “No fuckin’ respect for leanin’! You gotta problem with history or somethin’?” 

The kid turned back around, muttering. Charlie continued to swing his foot, with a little more persistence and aggression, but the boy wouldn’t dare cross him again. Charlie smirked at Meyer over the pages of his history textbook. 

“You are a maniac,” Meyer whispered, half-reverence, half-frustration. Charlie’s smile widened. 

“I’m just passionate about your education, is all,” he answered with mock-solemnity that made Meyer laugh and mutter “you fucker” before reciting a string of facts about the late 19th century. 

* * *

Arnold kept his hands folded on his desk, following the grain of the wood with his eyes. First period appointments were difficult. He found it near impossible to do his job when he was still barely awake. But a guidance counselor should not fall asleep in the middle of counseling, no matter how strong the temptation. He felt his eyelids flutter and shifted position, sitting upright and stiff to force himself to attention. 

“How are you coping with the changes, since our last session together?” He made a valiant effort to avoid yawning in the middle of his sentence.

Jimmy Darmody drummed his hands against side of his plastic chair, slouching with his denim-clad legs stretched across the laminate floor. The outline of a knee brace could be seen beneath the fabric, adding bulk where it didn’t belong. “Still think it sucks.” 

“You mentioned that you’ve switched into an art class. Has trying to find a new hobby helped?”  

Jimmy shrugged. “Art’s not so bad. But I miss football... And I hate this thing.” He gestured down to his leg brace without meeting Arnold’s eyes. “Wish I could still play.” 

Arnold nodded in sympathetic understanding, even though he had never played a sport in his life.  He did not place much value in the proceedings of a high school football team—others teams, however, were another matter. Mr. Gordon the geometry teacher was an ardent Eagles fan, to the extent that every Casual Friday saw him clad in an atrocious forest green jersey. This did, of course, often go in Arnold’s favor. There was a small betting pool that occurred in the faculty lounge. Mr. Gordon often bet excessively on the Eagles out of misplaced team loyalty, despite how seldom they won their games. Arnold reaped the rewards. 

But he had worked in education long enough to understand the pressure on student athletes, particularly when they tore tendons and could not play. Jimmy never seemed enthusiastic about going to see the guidance counselor—few did—but Arnold had specific instructions to ensure regular sessions. Mrs. Darmody was, after all, head of the PTA and possessed a large degree of influence. She was worried about him. With his sullen attitude, Arnold could understand why. 

“It’s natural for you to feel some sense of disorientation. Would you say that your position on the team was an integral part of your identity?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. 

Jimmy rambled through a response—he guessed so, yeah maybe—as Arnold typed a few notes on his iPad. He had been seeing Jimmy for about a month, ever since a rough tackle during a game left him injured and unable to play. It was difficult to gauge whether Jimmy was just a surly adolescent, or whether the loss of football had left him despondent.  

“I just don’t know what to do with myself—used to have practice every day, games on the weekends, hanging out with the guys. I still see them, but… It’s not the same. I don’t like it,” Jimmy concluded. Arnold looked up; it was perhaps the most honest thing Jimmy had ever said to him. He considered Jimmy a boy of few words, but if he was starting to open up, that had to be a good sign. Unsurprisingly, the boy’s eyes were trained on the floor. 

“Without something that has been important to you for many years, you may experience a loss of self, a shift in your priorities, your visions for the future…” Arnold explained in his soft voice, absentmindedly twisting his wedding band around on his finger. “Change is difficult for all of us, Jimmy.”  He continued to fidget as Jimmy spoke. He pulled his wedding ring off his finger, rolled it between his forefinger and thumb, before sliding it over his knuckle and back into place.  “That isn’t to say,” Arnold continued, his thoughts returning to his office, “that you won’t play football again. The injury will heal sometime, won't it?” 

It seemed that was not a helpful statement. Jimmy ground his teeth together, sitting up as a hard look crossed his face. “What’s it matter?” he spat. “The season’ll be over by then. It’s my last chance and I can’t even play! There were recruiters from _Princeton_ at the last game and I’m on the bench.” 

Arnold understood. “You’re worried this will preclude you from college.” Jimmy confirmed it with an agitated shrug. Arnold had since learned this was confirmation in teenage language. “You _do_ have the grades to get into a good school, even without a recruiter watching you play. You have years of involvement with the football team—extracurriculars always look good, and I’m sure Coach Thompson could write you an excellent letter of recommendation—” 

“Coach Thompson hates me ‘cause I’m not on the team anymore.” 

That did sound like Eli. For as long as Arnold had been working in the guidance department, Eli had been coaching the football team with a misplaced vigor that was almost frightening. “I’m sure he would still write your letter,” he said, even though he was anything but sure. Arnold didn’t hold either of the Thompson brothers in particularly high regard; they cared little for the actual needs of students. But that was not something he could say about a co-worker, or about the Superintendent for that matter. 

“Would you like me to send your transcripts to Princeton?” 

Jimmy sat forward, looking eager. “You think I could get in? I finished the Common app, and their supplement app, but I thought—without football, I wouldn't—” 

Arnold gave a small smile and typed a quick note to himself. He rooted around in his desk drawer, until he found a stack of bright orange leaflets. Amid clip art of diplomas and graduation caps, there was a checklist of the college application process. Arnold looked only slightly apologetic as he handed one to Jimmy. “I presume you know this information already, but it _is_ my job to facilitate the admissions process however I can…” 

Jimmy skimmed it, folded it in half, and shoved it into his pocket. “Thanks. Fingers crossed, okay?” 

“I don’t think you need any luck from me. You’re an impressive applicant all on your own.” 

Jimmy finally smiled.  

* * *

The dry erase marker squeaked as Margaret copied several quotes onto the board, pinning the book in place with her elbow. “Can anyone explain to me how these selections illustrate Joyce’s—” 

The door slammed. Margaret sighed, capped the marker, and turned around. “The bell rang five minutes ago. You are to be in your seat by the start of class,” she reminded, tired of making these same remarks every day. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t get any cooperation. 

Charlie shrugged, as he ambled to his desk, throwing his backpack to the ground and his body into the chair. “Had to piss. That so wrong?” 

“Then you should have come to class first and taken the hall pass.” She decided to leave it at that. She didn’t believe his excuse, but there were other students and they deserved her time much more. Margaret was starting to reach the end of her rope with the frequent disruptions of Charlie Luciano. “As I was saying, what do these quotes show about the role of art? Maybelle?” 

“I think what Joyce is saying, is that art is all about solitude. He thinks you have to be all by yourself,” Maybelle answered, glancing between Margaret and her copy of _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man._ Margaret confirmed her response with a smile—thankful that at least some of her students did the assigned reading—and turned to jot more onto the board. 

“And how does this relate to the overall structure—” 

“ _Darmody._ Hey, Darmody—” 

Margaret ignored the sharp whisper and continued to teach. “—the structure of the novel and Joyce’s attempts to illustrate—” 

“Darmody! You break your fuckin’ ear _and_ your leg?” 

She gripped the marker tighter between her fingers, determined not to reward Charlie’s need for attention. “—his childhood and the growth he experiences—” Jimmy was not as resilient; there was the scuffle of a chair turning around and the murmur of conversation. She slammed the marker onto the tray and wheeled about. “Boys! Please! Is there a problem? Do I need to move your seats?” 

Jimmy looked guilty; Charlie did not. “I’m just tryin’a borrow a pencil, but Darmody won’t give me one.” 

Margaret passed a pencil from her desk. “You should have come to class prepared,” she reprimanded, noticing that Charlie was also without a book. “Will that be all?” 

Charlie nodded, and Margaret returned to the discussion. The next fifteen minutes passed without incident. She elicited another insightful answer from Maybelle—the only student who already knew the definition of modernism—and prompted the rest of the class into participation with several questions. Julia just finished speaking when Jimmy raised his hand. 

“I didn’t get that whole part about _The Count of Monte Christo,_ ” he confessed. He thumbed through the pages, searching for the section, while a one or two hands bobbed upwards with uncertainty. “It seemed kinda random.” 

“Pearl? Can you explain?” Margaret asked, pointing to the girl diagonal from Jimmy. 

“Well, it’s like you were saying, about how art is really important to Stephen. So he’s reading this book and that’s how he figures things out, that’s how he grows. It’s all through art.” She blushed, and then added, “It’s his first time thinking about girls, too. It’s supposed to be a— you know, it’s the first time he’s thinking about anyone _that way,_ right?” 

Charlie scoffed. “‘Course Darmody don’t know nothin’ about that…” 

“The fuck you tryin’ to say?” Jimmy whipped around, knocking his book to the floor. Margaret attempted to direct the conversation elsewhere, but the boys were insistent. 

“Joyce is havin’ wet dreams about the Count of Monte Christo, while you’re waitin’ around for your balls to drop,” Charlie said, leaning back in his chair. He eyed Pearl and smirked. “Me, well—you can ask Jimmy’s mom about what I’m doin’ every night.”  

Jimmy leapt to his feet. His chair clattered to the ground. Charlie readied himself for a fight, but Margaret hurried between them. 

“Charlie, that is _not_ appropriate and you will leave class immediately. Jimmy, sit down.” In a huff, Margaret grabbed the phone from the desk and dialed the office. She explained in a clipped tone that there was a disciplinary issue and she was sending a student to see Principal Van Alden. Charlie gathered his things together with a general air of indifference, as Margaret filled out a slip and thrust it into his hands. 

He forced a jagged smile and thanked her, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He stooped to retrieve Jimmy’s fallen book and slapped it onto his desk. “Later, Darmody,” Charlie said, ruffling his hair as he made his exit. He seemed determined to waste as much of their class time as possible, leaving Margaret gritting her teeth by the time he finally slammed the door. 

“Now,” she said brusquely. “Back to James Joyce…” 

* * *

Meyer forced his over-stuffed backpack into the tiny gym locker. He required Benny’s strong shoulder to shove the door closed. 

“You need to stop schlepping around so much shit,” Benny remarked, rubbing his shoulder. Meyer just shrugged as he changed out of his jeans and into sweatpants; he didn’t have an alternative with his workload. Books and binders were heavy. 

The pack of boys changed in a rush, knobby elbows awkwardly bumping in the cramped locker room. They oozed into the gym, sneakers scuffling against the waxed floor and leaving streaks behind. Some boys set immediately to being stupid. They took turns jumping to see who could grab the basketball nets. But Meyer stood off to the side with Benny, not moving until he absolutely had to. He could see Benny watching the net-leapers, and he knew Benny probably wanted to clamor on top of the backboard himself, just to prove a point. But they had long ago decided that gym class was not worth it; they could prove their points elsewhere. 

There was only one good thing about gym class: it was all different grades mixed together. This was especially useful for Meyer, who had a tendency to befriend people who were not his same age. Last year, he and Charlie were lucky and wound up in the same gym class. This year, there was no Charlie. But there was Benny, which was nice, even though most people thought he was just an overly aggressive freshman. But Meyer had known him even longer than Charlie and he appreciated that they could share at least one class. 

Still, only one period with Benny—or Charlie—was not enough to undo all the awful parts of gym class. Meyer had compiled a rather extensive list of grievances, which he could rattle off at a moment’s notice in protest of mandatory gym classes. Changing was an aggravation, getting sweaty in the middle of the day was distracting to his education, the lockers were too tiny to accommodate anyone’s belongings, and his classmates were all larger and more competitive and therefore posed a danger to Meyer’s health. He couldn’t afford getting his nose broken by some bulky asshole trying to prove himself by aggressively playing an ill-advised game of indoor tennis. It wasn't that he _couldn't_ handle their aggressive sportsmanship; it was more that Meyer had better uses for his energy and wanted to keep his disciplinary record clean. 

Once the boys’ and girls’ locker rooms were empty, Coach Thompson blew his whistle to call the class to order.  “Alright. I want everyone gettin’ into groups of three. Go!” They scrambled into small clumps, everyone afraid of being the awkward kid without a group. Meyer glued himself to Benny’s side, and the pair looked around in desperation for a third. 

“You mind if I join?” Frank Capone stepped up to them. He towered above both Meyer and Benny, his biceps about the size of Meyer’s head and his manner exuding all of the outward charm Meyer lacked. “Figure you two could use a little height, since it’s basketball.” 

“You callin’ me short, you fuckin’—”

Meyer elbowed Benny into silence and offered Frank a wide, polite smile. “We’d love to have you.” 

Frank took his time looking Meyer up and down. A slow, easy grin spread across his face as he clapped Meyer on the shoulder. “In that case, I’d love for you to have me.” 

The temperature in the gym seemed to shoot up a couple hundred degrees as Meyer blushed and stammered. Frank just chuckled—low and deep and smooth—as Coach Thompson passed out the basketballs and directed each team to one of the many small nets lining the gym. Meyer was still dazed as they ambled over, along with the two senior girls and a freshman boy who would be their opponents. 

Meyer couldn’t help but eye him as Frank dribbled the ball, keeping it steady and controlled under one hand, without the least bit of effort. He was one of those rare people who managed to look attractive in sweatpants, whereas Meyer just felt bulky and disproportionate. There was something Charlie-like in Frank’s build—tall and lean and casual in his manner. But he had a strong set body and wider shoulders, where Charlie just drooped inwards on himself. 

“Hey asshole, you ready to start or what?” Benny snapped his fingers in Meyer’s face. Embarrassed, he nodded, looking anywhere but Frank as he tried to refocus. He had no idea how long they’d been waiting and his cheeks burned redder. 

Frank just laughed and passed Meyer the ball. He caught it, dribbled, and tried to assess the other team’s defense. But he was distracted, too self-conscious about his body and what his limbs were doing and whether he looked as awkward as he felt. It was expected that Meyer felt uncomfortable during gym class, but it was another matter altogether when Frank kept _looking_ at him that way. 

He knew Frank a little bit from Mr. White’s class. AP Calculus was not offered to sophomores but Meyer had permission to take the course early, due to his exemplary grades. Frank sat behind him. They had only ever spoken of derivatives, but Meyer found himself wishing he had said more. 

Meanwhile, one of the girl’s from the other team preyed on his hesitation and swatted the ball away from him. She turned and charged down the small stretch of court to score. 

“Next time I give you the ball, try and hold onto it,” Frank advised with amusement. Meyer tried—and failed—to ignore the innuendo.  

Everything moved much faster from then on. The opposing team rushed at them again. Frank hurried to guard the girl with the ball, his long arms outstretched and muscles flexing from beneath the sleeves of his tee-shirt. He stole the ball, pivoted on the spot, and scored. It was much easier when they were only playing with one net, Meyer reasoned. All the same, he was impressed by the grace with which Frank moved. 

They went on like this for some time. The other team scored several baskets; Meyer was not good at defense, as his arms could only reach so high and block so much. Benny’s verve and energy was intimidating enough to compensate for his height. Had they been playing a refereed game, Benny would have been fouled twenty times over. But his tactics of yelling in the opposite team’s face and elbowing them out of the way were effective for gym class. 

Frank was their unquestioned asset. Even with the other team bearing down on him, he still seemed so calm, as he let the ball fly through his fingers and sink down into the net. 

“What’s the score?” Benny demanded. Meyer was scorekeeper at Frank’s behest, who knew his knack for numbers.

“Six-to-four, us,” he answered. Benny whooped with vicious glee. 

Frank winked to Meyer as he passed him the ball. “I’ll cover you,” he called out, blocking the opposite team with the girth of his muscular body. Aware that Frank was watching and counting on him, Meyer took off down the shortened court. His sneakers skidded to a halt and he tossed the ball up, just as a hand rose to block him. The dingy ball flew up, rolled around the rim, and plopped through the net. 

“Nice one!” Frank congratulated, jogging past Meyer and rubbing his hand along his back. Meyer beamed. 

By the time Coach Thompson blew the whistle near the end of the period, the score was ten-to-seven and Benny was leaping up and down in triumph. Frank congratulated the opposing team on a good game while Meyer tried to catch his breath. The three of them entered the locker room together. Meyer struggled again with the door of his jammed locker, until a warm hand pressed against the small of his back. 

He glanced up, meeting Frank’s half-lidded eyes as he stared back. “Good game, Lansky. Didn’t realize you could hustle and solve differential equations. I’m impressed.” 

Meyer blushed and chuckled nervously. “I’m much better at the latter than the former, however.” 

Without any embarrassment, Frank ripped off his sweaty tee-shirt and dropped it to the ground. He raised his arms above his head and liberally applied deodorant, his eyes locked on Meyer all the while. “We ought to team up more often.”  

Meyer couldn’t agree more. 

* * *

“It says here that you made inappropriate remarks to another student during class. Could you please explain this incident to me, Mr. Luciano?” 

Charlie slouched down in his chair. He stared at the floor, hands buried deep in the pockets of his sweatpants and a scowl on his face. “I didn’t say nothin’.” 

Principal Van Alden sighed. He read over the slip Miss Rohan filled out, like he was searching for more answers about Charlie’s misbehavior. He had a way about him; Charlie couldn’t tell if it was funny or irritating, but the guy was so stiff. He sat up too straight, his hulking form a wide rectangle behind his desk, and he clasped his hands with comical tightness around the thin slip of paper. Back when he was just a freshman, Charlie feared those giant hands; they looked dangerous. But now he knew the principal was the pinnacle of restraint. The worst he would do was chastise Charlie and give him another in-school suspension. 

Charlie had perfected an impression of Van Alden. He was pretty proud of it; he would mimic his walk and voice and way-too-formal way of speaking for anyone who would stay still long enough to watch. He figured he spent enough time in the office to learn his mannerisms and he might as well show them off. After all, Charlie had to learn how to do _something_ in school, didn’t he? 

“Alright fine. I said I was fuckin’ Jimmy’s mom. And that his balls ain’t dropped yet,” Charlie confessed. Van Alden didn’t even look surprised. 

“Mrs. Darmody is the chairperson of the PTA and a valued member of our academic community,” Van Alden said. “She has contributed much to this school—the least you can do is refrain from terrorizing her son.” 

Charlie just beamed at him like they were old friends, not listening to a word he was saying. “She’s a fuckin’ milf though.” 

Van Alden’s enormous forehead creased. “I am not familiar with that term.” 

Well, Charlie wasn’t about to explain the birds and the bees to him. He just shrugged and told Van Alden to look it up himself—in fact, Charlie said he knew several websites that could describe the concept. He was surprised he didn’t get a detention right then and there, but Van Alden was probably too prude to even understand what Charlie was saying to him. That, or he was too used to Charlie to be bothered. 

Van Alden continued with his lecture. Charlie could not use such vulgar language in class, he couldn’t be disruptive, he had to respect his fellow students, blah blah blah, et cetera, et cetera. Charlie was bored already. 

“Listen, Nellie, you wanna wrap this thing up. I get the picture,” he interrupted. 

Van Alden winced; Charlie thought he looked like he was having trouble taking a shit. Nellie was his favorite nickname for the high school principal. 

“Mr. Luciano, I fear that current disciplinary action is having no effect on you,” Van Alden said in his stiff, low voice. 

“Mr. Van Alden,” Charlie replied, mimicking his tone, “does it hurt to have a big stick rammed up your ass all the time?” 

Apparently, he crossed the line. Van Alden slammed his fists down onto his desk. Charlie jumped, flinching away out of instinct. “Will you be quiet!” Van Alden shouted and Charlie braced himself. A tense silence fell over the room, filled with only Van Alden’s loud, angry breathing. After a pause, when nothing was thrown at his head and no meaty fist collided with his face, Charlie glanced back up. He slowly unwound himself from his defensive position. But his heart was racing as he looked at the principal, red-faced and white-knuckled and looking as though he were exercising every ounce of self-restraint. What he was restraining himself from doing, Charlie didn’t want to know. 

“What am I supposed to do with you if you refuse to take _anything_ seriously?” Van Alden demanded. Charlie opened his mouth, but the man plowed on. “You are disrespectful, crude, and arrogant. You disturb the learning environment. You refuse to abide by our rules and you don’t even have the decency to accept your punishments.” 

“Do you know what happens to kids like you?” he continued. Charlie gave a feeble shrug, eyes on the carpet. “Without self-discipline and respect for authority, you cannot succeed. You’re almost eighteen; how long do you expect it will take before your first arrest? You’re an adult, Mr. Luciano, and your actions have consequences. If you fail to see that, you will amount to nothing.” 

Charlie nodded, his shoulders hunched together as he tried to shrink out of sight. 

“High school is the easy part. We let you get away with things here. It won’t be like that in the real world; you can’t just charm your way through life with immature jokes. It’s time you learned a real skill, do you understand?” 

Charlie nodded again. He wanted to shout that it was just a stupid comment. Darmody was an asshole anyway, he didn’t mean anything by it, and he was just trying to make things fun. He wanted to ask Van Alden how high school could be _easy_ when all they ever asked for was everything he had to give. How was it easy, when they stopped caring once Charlie couldn’t keep up? Every teacher saw his record before they ever saw his face and treated him accordingly. Van Alden was wrong; it would be easier out in the world. He _had_ skills. They just weren’t sitting in quiet obedience all day, slaving over pointless work, and regurgitating facts on tests. 

But Charlie didn’t say any of those things. He just clenched and unclenched his hands, twisting his fingers around each other, as he waited for his sentencing so he could go. 

“At this point, I see no choice but in-school suspension for the remainder of the week. Further, I think it wise if we revoke some of your privileges—attendance at prom, walking at graduation, and other activities later in the year.” 

Charlie’s head shot up. “I’m passin’ my classes! You can’t keep me from graduating just ‘cause of this!” 

Van Alden ground his teeth and spoke with extreme restraint. “You will still receive your diploma. However, you will not be invited to participate in the ceremony of commencement and your name will not be read aloud with your classmates.” 

“That’s bullshit.” 

“Language, Mr. Luc—” 

“That’s fuckin’ bullshit. You can’t do that.” 

Van Alden raised his voice. “As a matter of fact, I can.” 

It didn’t matter to Charlie whether he walked at graduation. He would like to be out of high school as soon as possible. Not wearing some dumb robe would be a blessing. His parents, on the other hand, wouldn’t feel the same way. They would be livid if they couldn’t go to his graduation. He didn’t want to face that. 

“I will make you an offer,” Van Alden began, and Charlie’s ears perked up. “It has been discussed that we ought to offer students _alternatives_ when it comes to frequent rule-breaking. Considering how often you find yourself in this office, we will keep your punishment at suspension alone—provided you attend regular sessions at the guidance office for the remainder of the academic year.” 

“What? I’m not seein’ no guidance counselor.” He wasn’t some sob story. He didn’t need anybody prying into his head to see what was the matter with him. He was fine. He didn’t need guidance. 

“Or we could proceed with my originally proposed punishment—” 

“Fine. I’ll go to fuckin’ guidance.” 

* * *

Margaret’s heels clacked on the tile as she crossed the faculty lounge. She dropped a copy of _Hamlet a_ nd a tupperware with her sandwich onto the round table in the corner, before sitting down with a sigh. 

Arnold glanced up from his iPad and smiled. “Rough morning?” He was nursing a Styrofoam cup of tea with his free hand, occasionally taking a bite from a brownie. There were always baked goods in the faculty lounge, courtesy of Coach Thompson’s wife. Margaret understood that she had a tendency to stress-bake, due perhaps to having too many children at home. This led to many leftovers, which always found their way to school with Eli. As a result, Margaret was not certain she had ever seen Arnold eat _real_ food, despite having lunch with him nearly everyday. 

“It was tiresome. In my last class, no one had read beyond Act I.” She shook her head and stared at the book’s cover. “They were surprised when I said that Hamlet dies…” 

He made a noise of sympathy, before his eyes regained that slightly glazed look and he returned to staring at his iPad. Margaret watched him. He occasionally took his hand from his cup of tea and swiped it across the screen, although he had long since stopped drinking the beverage. Margaret was starting to wonder if it was even hot. 

“What is it you’re doing?” she inquired, as Arnold normally had a keen look to his eyes and a precision in everything he did. She wasn’t accustomed to such long lapses of silence. 

But Arnold didn’t answer. He made several more motions against the screen. Margaret felt as though she were back in her classroom, with students attempting to hide their cellphones behind novels. She repeated the question. 

“Hm?” His eyebrows arched up into his widow’s peak. “Sorry, ah—I’m just—” He made a few more motions, set his iPad down on the table, and looked up at her with a tight smile. “Solitaire.” 

Solitaire? She was being ignored for _solitaire?_ “Well, did you win?” she asked politely. It was always best to be polite, even if she resented that digital cards were taking a precedence. 

Arnold shook his head. “Bit of a losing streak,” he answered in his soft voice. He folded his hands on the table and stared at them, again resuming his trance-like state. 

Margaret watched him curiously as she ate her sandwich, wondering if he would perk up at any point. He did not. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and a general worn out look clinging to his features. “Have you not been sleeping enough?” Objectively, Margaret would describe him as a handsome man, but there was something off about his appearance that day. His hair—which he normally wore slicked back and refined—was uncharacteristically fluffed up in curls that threatened to escape into disarray. He wore a necktie, instead of his typical bow tie, which Margaret always thought was a charming quirk in his personality. When she thought on it, she realized he had been carrying that bedraggled look about for some stretch of time. 

“I sleep fine, thank you.” 

“Well something must be the matter,” she pressed. Arnold stared at her; it was impossible to read his expression. 

He glanced down and admitted, “My wife and I are getting a divorce.” 

Margaret’s lips parted in surprise and sympathy, as she reached her hand across the table and placed it atop Arnold’s forearm. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, the ache of empathy in her chest. 

He gave a funny half-shrug, unwilling to meet her eyes, but he did not pull away from her touch. “It’s nothing sudden. We’ve—” he hesitated, expression pensive, before brushing the whole matter aside by repeating, “It isn’t sudden.” 

Margaret frowned, retracting her arm and folding her hands instead atop the table. “I’m sure that doesn’t make it any easier to bear, than if it had happened quite unexpectedly,” she said in a soft way. In solidarity with his pain, she offered, “If you find yourself wanting to talk…” 

Arnold seemed to perk up at the promise. He raised his head, looking at her with a curious expression, as though he didn’t expect such kindness. Margaret smiled, slid her chair towards him, and glanced down at his iPad. Distraction—she had learned—was often the best medicine for such pains. “Let’s see if we can win a game.” 

“You can’t play solitaire as a team. That’s counterintuitive,” he chided, although he opened the app regardless. The cards shuffled themselves across the screen. There were two aces laid out on the starting stacks. Arnold glanced at Margaret, who beamed. “I concede. You’re good luck.” 

They began playing with ease, Arnold dragging the cards around the screen as Margaret pointed and exclaimed happily when useful cards were overturned. After a few minutes, however, their game began to slow. Arnold frowned as he clicked through the top deck three at a time, in search of something useful. “It seems our luck has run out…” 

Margaret tilted her head and studied the screen. “What if you moved that seven?” 

“What?” Arnold’s eyes roved over the cards. He laughed in triumph, dragged the seven, and continued like lightening with his fingers dancing over the screen and flinging the fake cards into place, until everything was stacked neatly atop the aces. 

He grinned at Margaret and she beamed back, pleased to see him more lively. “You really do bring me luck.” He stared a moment longer and Margaret blushed and looked away, adjusting her cardigan around her shoulders. 

She was spared a response when Angela sat down opposite them, paint flecks in her short, dark hair. Margaret was relieved to escape that look of Arnold’s—a look that felt fearfully familiar, but she preferred not to read into it. The three of them exchanged pleasant hellos with one another, discussing briefly their mornings, before Angela turned to Arnold with a look of concern. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—I know you can’t tell me much—but I’m worried about Jimmy. You meet with him, don’t you?” 

Arnold confirmed that he did. “What is the nature of your concern?” 

Angela shifted back and forth in her seat, grasping for the words with a slight rotation of her hand. “He just… He looks so lost. Like he’s drifting.” 

“Do you think it’s anything to do with the bullying?” Margaret piped up. 

Both Arnold and Angela swiveled to look at her, and it was clear by both their expressions that they hadn’t the slightest idea about it. She took a minute to finish chewing her bite of sandwich, cleared her throat, and then proceeded with a moment’s hesitation. “Well… I’ve quite the issue between him and Charlie Luciano in my English class.” 

“Ah, him.” Arnold made a noise of recognition at the name, and began tapping across the screen of his iPad. “I just received an e-mail from Nelson. I’ll start seeing Charlie in guidance on Monday.” 

Margaret shook her head, with a light, exasperated sigh. “Well, I’ll wish you the best of luck. He’s something of a headache.” 

To her surprise, Arnold smirked. “I look forward to the challenge.” 

The acerbic remark dangled from her lips, about how she’d buy him a bottle of aspirin if he was so confident, but as she opened her mouth, Angela interjected. “What’s going on with him and Jimmy?” Her dark eyes implored Margaret with a look of soft concern, with a glow of genuine sympathy that made Margaret wonder if perhaps Angela ought to have been the guidance counselor instead of Arnold. But the paint flecks looked so natural dusting her dark hair and Margaret couldn’t imagine her any other way. 

“Charlie singles him out, makes vulgar comments. He’s dreadfully rude. I don’t know if it’s between them, or if Jimmy is perhaps… not popular with the other students.” Thinking back, Margaret was certain that Jimmy had friends in the class. She had seen him chatting pleasantly to Julia and Pearl in class, and often passed him in the halls with a short, broad-shouldered boy whose name Margaret didn’t know. 

Angela rubbed her hand across her face. “He’s a good kid. He really is.” She paused a moment and then seemed to make up her mind. She rose to her feet, thanked them both for the insight, and said, “I’ll see if I can get the story from him.” 

As she left, Arnold turned back to Margaret and smiled. “It’s always some adventure or another, isn’t it?”

* * *

The hallway was deafening with the cluttered buzz of voices and the slamming of metal on metal, as everyone gathered their books and their coats at the end of the day. Jimmy tossed textbooks into his backpack, his winter coat in a heap at his feet. 

He hesitated and then turned to Richard, who was leaning against the neighboring locker with the strap of his backpack clutched in his hands. 

“Do I need this?” Jimmy asked, holding up his biology textbook. He hadn’t been paying attention, too busy daydreaming and picking bits of paint off his hands after art class. 

“Yes,” Richard answered in his stiff voice. “Mr. O’Banion said to. Read the chapter on. Plant diversity.” 

With a groan of frustration, Jimmy crammed the book into his bag, amid far too many other binders and notebooks. His shoulders ached and all that weight couldn’t be good for his leg, but he swung it up regardless. If he got into Princeton, it would all be worth the sore back. That reminded him— “I decided I’m gonna apply to Princeton. Mr. Rothstein said he’d send my transcripts.” 

Richard smiled in his small, timid way. “Congratulations. I hope you. Get in.” 

At that moment, a large hand clapped Jimmy on the back and slung around his neck, pulling him down into a headlock. “Gonna miss you at practice!” Al shouted, rubbing the knuckles of his free hand through Jimmy’s hair. 

“Get the fuck off me!” Jimmy struggled and shoved Al, but he was laughing all the same. His sneakers squeaked on the tile as he tried to yank himself free. “C’mon, asshole!” 

Al cackled and wrestled Jimmy back and forth. Their broad shoulders and bags swung dangerously and knocked into passing students. Jimmy squirmed and cursed at Al between breathless laughter, until he finally wrenched out of his grip. “You’re a dick, Capone,” he panted, tugging his tee-shirt back into place. 

He responded by playfully punching Jimmy in the gut. “So what, huh? Gotta keep you tough since you ain’t playin’.” 

Jimmy glared and shifted his heavy load more securely onto his shoulder. That was just what he needed—another reminder that Al was on his way to practice and Jimmy was on his way home. “You comin’ to our game Friday or what?” Al continued, oblivious to Jimmy’s irritation. 

Somehow freezing his ass off in the bleachers didn’t seem like the best way to spend a Friday night. They told him he was still part of the team and they wanted him there, but it was hard to believe there was any truth to it as Jimmy sat from a distance, while they played and celebrated and joked around together under the bright stadium lights. Coolly, Jimmy replied, “I might.” 

Al finally caught on. “What’s goin’ on? Got your fuckin’ period or somethin’? What’s with him, huh?” he asked, elbowing Richard for his advice. 

Surprised at being addressed, Richard adjusted his glasses and looked to Jimmy, before uncertainly saying, “I think he’s just. Stressed. Jimmy is going—” 

But Al interrupted. “Stressed, that all? Gonna be an asshole just ‘cause you’re stressed?” With the way Richard spoke, not a lot of people had the patience to hear him out. It was some kind of speech problem he had going on. Richard explained it to Jimmy once, but it was a long time ago. Those details didn’t matter to Jimmy, though; all he cared about was his friend getting heard. 

“Hey, you interrupted my friend here. You gonna say sorry and let him talk?” Jimmy snapped, bearing down on Al. He considered Jimmy for a moment, cracked a smile, and smacked Richard in the stomach as he told him to talk. 

Richard blushed and stared at his shoes. “I was just saying. Jimmy is applying to. Princeton.” 

“Princeton, huh! You gonna be a Tiger?” Al practically jumped on Jimmy in his enthusiasm to ruffle his hair again. Jimmy stepped out of his reach, slammed his locker door, and suggested they head out. 

He tried to seem nonchalant about the whole college thing. After all, it wasn’t like Al was too worried one way or the other where he ended up. “I’m just applying, that’s all. Just to see what happens.” 

“Lemme know how that one turns out,” Al laughed. Jimmy couldn’t tell if it was just Al’s way of talking, or if he doubted that Jimmy could get in. Given his own uncertainties, he guessed Al probably shared them. He didn’t say much else, instead just listening as Al rambled on and on about Friday’s game. Jimmy was glad when they passed the gym and Al slapped his back and headed off to practice. 

Jimmy and Richard left the school together, milling across the cement walkway past the neat lines of buses and the zigzags of students passing. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, shuffling through piles of dead leaves that blew across the pavement. “You want a ride home?” he offered. “My mom’s picking me up.”

“That. Would be nice.” Richard smiled as he accepted. They fell into comfortable silence again as they walked, until they came to the familiar car. 

Jimmy opened the passenger door and and dropped his backpack onto the floor, before he clamored in. 

“That looks heavy,” Gillian commented. “Do you have a lot of homework?” 

“No more than usual. Ma, you mind if we drive Richard home?” 

Richard settled himself in the backseat and stared out the window, trying to look unobtrusive. Gillian offered a tight smile. “Not at all, dear.” She put the car into drive and returned to the subject of Jimmy’s workload. “You know Dr. Mason says to take it easy, James. You don’t want to strain your leg.” 

He grumbled that he could manage it and fidgeted instead with the radio. He flicked through the preset channels, but it was nothing but advertisements. Jimmy sat back and sighed. Gillian spoke to Richard instead, looking at him through the rearview mirror. She asked him to remind her where he lived, as Richard gave directions. 

A PSA for a candidate in the upcoming school board elections played on the radio. Gillian huffed and punched the volume dial, and the car fell into complete silence. 

“The school board should be redone from top to bottom. None of them have a clue how to run their affairs,” she complained, drumming her nails against the rim of the steering wheel. “But of course, when _Nucky Thompson_ is your superintendent, what can you expect?” 

“Ma—” Jimmy interrupted. “Let’s talk about something else. Don’t bore Richard.” 

“You’re not bored, are you, Richard?” Gillian asked immediately. Richard had a look of horror on his face that made Jimmy certain he was wishing for the safety of his bus seat. 

“No Mrs. Darmody,” he answered quietly. He was too polite to ever say anything else, but that didn’t stop Gillian from humming in triumph. 

“You see, dear. It’s important to be informed on local affairs. It isn’t my fault if you’re sulking today,” she pressed on while Jimmy shrunk down in his seat. The whole day had been shit and he just wanted it to be over. First Luciano was an asshole, and then Al with the football… He didn’t have a lot of patience to hear all about the school board and the PTA and whatever his mother was campaigning for this time. 

“I’m not sulking—” 

“I can tell when you’re sulking, James, and you’re sulking—”

“Give it a rest, will you! Jesus!” 

There was a timid voice from the backseat under the noise of their argument. “Excuse me. Mrs. Darmody. Mrs. Darmody?” He repeated the soft plea over and over, until both Jimmy and Gillian heard it a moment too late. They glanced back at him and he pointed out the window at the street they were rapidly passing. “I live there,” he said bashfully. 

Somehow Jimmy felt justified in his anger—if they hadn’t been talking about the school board, they wouldn’t have missed the turn—and crossed his arms in aggressive satisfaction. Gillian turned around in a stranger’s driveway, sighing at Jimmy over the soft clicking of the left turn signal. 

But nobody said a word until they arrived in front of Richard’s house and he stepped awkwardly from the car, collecting his things. “Thank you. For the ride,” he said. “Have a good. Night.” 

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.” 

The thought made him all the more irritable. The alarm would ring, Jimmy would stumble half asleep into homeroom, and the cycle of bells, books, and locker doors would start all over again. It was only Monday. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter one on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/81125529238/nobody-wants-to-be-in-school-forever-charlie)


	2. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As December rolls around, AR and Charlie struggle through their guidance sessions together, Jimmy struggles through art class, and Margaret and Meyer seem to be the only reasonable people in the middle of the chaos. Pearl is fed up, Mickey is irresponsible, and Eli might shout himself hoarse. With lax substitutes, Venus Fly Traps, and the continued existence of gravity, winter break can't come soon enough.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Arnold was grasping at straws in his attempts to make conversation. It was the first Monday after their brief Thanksgiving break and Charlie Luciano was in a worse mood than usual. It had been weeks since Principal Van Alden obligated Charlie to attend counseling sessions. Ever since, Arnold had been working hard to get something other than surly remarks, vulgar language, or scathing indifference out of the boy. So far, Arnold had only managed to get himself scraped up trying to smooth Charlie’s rough edges. 

“Loud. Lotta pasta.” Charlie wore a lopsided scowl underneath his untidy curls. 

Arnold gave an amused chuckle. “I wasn’t aware that pasta was the standard fare for a Thanksgiving meal. That sounds rather against tradition.” 

Apparently it was not, because Charlie’s scowl deepened. “It ain’t if you’re Italian.” He looked Arnold up and down and his expression changed from a scowl of dislike to a scowl of thoughtfulness. Arnold was beginning to wonder if he had any other facial expressions. “I’m guessin’ you ain’t Italian?” 

“With a name like ‘Arnold Rothstein,’ that would be a clever guess,” he answered in a dry voice, lips drawn into a tight smile. To his surprise, Charlie gave a snort of laughter and mumbled, “Guess so.” 

They fell back into silence and Arnold sighed, studying Charlie. He had a lean and lanky frame. His hair was dark and unruly, though not quite as unruly as his thick eyebrows which—as far as Arnold had seen—were always pulled together in a glower. He could have been the poster child for teenage petulance. With his bad moods and worse acne, Charlie seemed determined to send a message of adolescent angst. 

"I think we ought to address your propensity for causing a disturbance in class," Arnold started in a hesitant tone. Charlie stared at him with his lopsided expression and said, "Huh?" 

"You act out. I'm sure there's a reason." 

Charlie turned and stared out of the window, arms defiantly—or perhaps protectively—folded across his chest. "Just don't like bein' here…" 

"You mean you don't like your classes?" Arnold clarified. He typed a few notes as he waited for Charlie to continue speaking: dislikes classes, continued unwillingness to open up, needs new acne cream. 

Charlie adopted a pained, irritable expression. Arnold thought it may have been a look of contemplation. Maybe not. "Well, yeah. But more’n just that. It—It don't work for me. All that sittin' and listenin'." 

He shrugged, drumming his fingers against the arms of the chair, his gaze trained out of the window with such intensity that he seemed determined to avoid Arnold’s eyes. Arnold added “difficulty paying attention” and “signs of minimal cooperation” to his list. Charlie was opening up a little and he considered it progress. It was better than their first session, which consisted of Charlie answering all of Arnold’s questions with some clever variation of “fuck off.” 

"It may surprise you to hear it, but I understand where you're coming from,” Arnold confessed with a touch of real sympathy. “To an extent. I wasn't keen on school either at your age." 

As a boy, Arnold had loathed the classroom. He was too intelligent for it, and felt that his mental pursuits were better off elsewhere. It didn’t put him into trouble as it did Charlie, but that was due more to Arnold’s ability to break rules with enough charm and cunning to escape any real punishment. "I was young once. I know you may not believe me, but…" he added with a light laugh. Charlie cracked a smile.

“So how come you work in a school?” he asked, nodding to the Master's Degree in Counseling hanging behind Arnold’s desk in a neat and simple frame. 

It was a reasonable enough question. Arnold was not overly fond of school, nor of children, yet there he was as a guidance counselor. With a tight smile, he said, “Well I have to pay my mortgage, don’t I?” 

“But _high school?_ ” 

“It’s a more legitimate career than playing online poker all day long,” Arnold pointed out with a tight grin. 

Charlie asked if he did that. His own affairs were not something he particularly liked discussing with students, but perhaps it would be useful to treat Charlie as a peer. That could make him more comfortable with the guidance experience. Arnold explained that he did gamble, from time to time, both virtually and in person when he had the chance. If his degree was good for anything else, it was reading people and figuring out how they operated. It gave him a certain advantage. “We all need to make money, don’t we?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Charlie replied, perking up. “That’s why I sell Adderall.” 

Taken aback, Arnold stared. He glanced down at the screen of his iPad, typed “sells Ad—” and then backspaced. He wouldn’t put that on record, at least not yet. The kid was in enough trouble already. “Charlie… Where do you _get_ the Adderall?” he asked with concern. And could he be sure that it was _actually_ Adderall? 

He shrugged. “A friend. Found out online it’s real easy to get if you tell them doctors all the right things. They’ll practically give it away, specially if you get in trouble at school or somethin' like that. This kid, they was practically dyin' for an excuse to calm him down. So he figured out what to say, I take his prescription, sell it, and we split the money 50/50.” Charlie hesitated and then added, “Guess that ain't too fair for the kids that really got ADD. But—not havin' any money ain't fair for me."  

Arnold was silent. He felt he had a responsibility as a member of staff to report such behavior. It was, after all, willing admission to some pretty illegal behavior. With a sigh, he resolved to pretend that Charlie had said nothing about Adderall. It was not procedure, but Arnold preferred his own methods of operation. There were somethings that were better to overlook, as long as they yielded good results, and earning Charlie's trust would be useful. 

“I can’t condone that sort of behavior, Charlie, but…” They all had to make it in the world somehow, didn’t they? It's not like he was dealing anything _too_ dangerous, right? Instead of continuing his lecture, Arnold asked, "Are you hungry?" 

Charlie’s face creased in surprise, but Arnold just smiled at him—serene and pleasant—from the other side of his desk. He would connect as a peer, he resolved. Besides, Arnold couldn’t be sure that Charlie ate regular meals. He looked skinny enough, oversized hoodies and all. "I often find myself getting hungry long before lunchtime. These early hours…" 

"They're the fuckin' worst," Charlie agreed. 

Without another word, Arnold walked over to his filing cabinet and opened the top drawer with a key. "What kind of Pop-Tarts do you like?" 

"What?" 

Arnold repeated the question. Charlie asked what kinds he had, which only made Arnold chuckle. He had amassed quite the collection. His secret stash of Pop-Tarts saw him through many a long day—and storing them at work kept Carolyn from interceding in his diet “for his health.” Arnold selected a box of S'mores flavor—always a crowd pleaser—and offered to split the package with Charlie. He accepted with a look of deepening confusion.  

"I apologize that I cannot make guidance fun. A snack is the least I can offer,” Arnold explained. They sat for a moment in silence. Arnold nibbled along the perimeter of the Pop-Tart as Charlie bit it clean in half and showered the front of his sweatshirt in crumbs. Mouth still half-full, Charlie nodded to the photograph behind Arnold’s desk.

"That your wife?" he mumbled through semi-chewed Pop-Tart. 

Arnold forced a smile and answered ‘yes’ through tight lips. It was an old photo, from their honeymoon up in Saratoga. They hadn’t had a vacation together in years. 

"Any kids?" It wasn't something Arnold enjoyed, talking about his personal life, but at least Charlie was talking. He was about to answer no, when the door to his office swung open. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, AR! The man at the desk said you were free, and—hey Charlie." 

Charlie swiveled at the sound of the voice, his face brightening into a wide smile that completely altered his whole demeanor. Arnold glanced between the two of them, thoughtful. "Do you two know each other?" They were not in the same grade, but perhaps they shared a few classes.  Meyer did take senior-level courses; he had arranged that with Arnold at the end of last summer. But that couldn’t be the source of their friendship either, as Charlie did not take advanced classes. Perhaps extra-curricular activities… 

"Yes. He's my best friend," Meyer answered. "Sorry that I interrupted. I didn’t realize—" 

"Yes, well, Mr. Tolliver is not the most competent secretary," Arnold excused with a slight frown in the direction of the door. The man could not keep track of his activity, much as he tried. "Perhaps when I'm through with Charlie, we can discuss whatever matters—" 

"Nah, let Meyer stay!" Charlie interrupted. "I don't mind." 

"That's hardly protocol, Charlie, but…" Arnold glanced at the time. There were only ten minutes left in the period. He and Charlie would be wrapping up soon anyway, and Arnold had already thrown protocol to the wind that afternoon. "How about we finish early today, Charlie?" He could take care of whatever Meyer needed in the time they had left. He invited Meyer to pull up a chair beside Charlie, who scooted over to make room for him with a dopey grin. Arnold offered him a Pop-Tart, but he declined, and they got down to business. 

"I thought it might be wise to take the SATs already," Meyer began. "That way, if I end up doing the other thing…" He cast a brief glance at Charlie, who didn't understand and didn't ask. But Arnold knew from lengthy talks and some hard work pulling strings and arranging matters that Meyer was planning on graduating a year early. "Yes, I think that's best to do now," Arnold agreed. Meyer chuckled and said, "Though I doubt I'll have to take them more than once, I would like to leave a little extra time, in case I need a better score." 

Before Arnold could respond, Charlie chimed in with, "Shut up, Mey. You're gonna be perfect on the first try."  

Meyer blushed and smiled at his shoes, while Arnold agreed with both Charlie's encouragement and Meyer's sound practicality. “Perhaps the pair of you ought to register for the same test date. You are likely to be assigned to the same room, as it is alphabetical.” 

Charlie seemed enthusiastic about the idea, giving a wide smile and sitting up with interest. Arnold didn’t think his suggestion warranted that much happiness, but perhaps Charlie was nervous about the test. Having Meyer might be helpful, for moral support at least. 

“That's a good idea, AR,” Meyer agreed. Charlie looked around with surprise and blurted, “What’d you call him?” 

Meyer answered that it was just a nickname, though the end of his sentence was drowned by the shrill clanging of the bell that signaled the end of the period. It wasn’t a real bell, just a recording of one issuing over the loudspeaker. Still, they managed to keep the noise just as obnoxious. Charlie swung his backpack over his shoulder and brushed Pop-Tart crumbs to the floor, while Meyer thanked Arnold for his time. 

“Take care, boys,” Arnold said as they left his office. “And behave!” he called out after them, more to Charlie than to Meyer. 

* * *

"I still don't get why you're callin' him nicknames and shit," Charlie said as he and Meyer walked through the overcrowded hallway together. They were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder as too many students tried to make their way past.  

"I’ve known him since I was a kid," Meyer answered. "He used to go to the same Synagogue as my mom—he was even at my Bar Mitzvah." 

Charlie was about to protest that so was he, and Meyer hadn't given him any cool nicknames, when Meyer grabbed his arm and tugged him sideways. With something of a nervous expression, he said, "Come to my locker for a second, will you?" Charlie, who didn't mind being late to class and would take any excuse to spend more time with Meyer, followed him dutifully. He figured Meyer just needed to grab more textbooks. Seriously, the kid was going to break his back or something. Instead he pulled a square bundle of wrapping paper from the top shelf of his locker.  

"I know it's a week late, but with Thanksgiving and everything, I didn’t get the chance… Well, anyway, happy birthday, Charlie." 

Charlie accepted the gift with stunned silence, awed that Meyer had even gone through the trouble. Nobody ever made a big deal about his birthday, especially because they were too busy thinking about Thanksgiving. Holding the package in one arm, Charlie pulled Meyer into a tight hug, grinning as he buried his face in Meyer’s soft hair. He hummed and gave a thoughtful sniff. “What’s in your hair? It smells real good.”

Meyer pushed him away with a laugh. "It’s just a little product. Anyway, don’t smell me—open it, you idiot!" 

"Don't fuckin' rush me," Charlie grinned, trying to shove Meyer back. 

"I will rush you, because I want to see your face and then I want to go to class. Now!" 

Obliging him, Charlie shred through the paper. Meyer did a good job wrapping—the corners were nice and tight so that it seemed molded to whatever was beneath. But Charlie was vigorous enough to rip it open before too long. Meyer gathered up the paper that Charlie let fall to the floor and stared at him with nervous expectation. Charlie turned over two box sets of DVDs in his hands. "The Sopranos?" 

"I remembered you liked it, that time we were watching at my house, and I know you don't have HBO…" Meyer explained in a rush. Charlie nodded and muttered something about premium channels being fucking ridiculous with what they charged. "Anyway, I thought it was something to keep you busy over winter break." 

From anyone else, "keep you busy" would have meant "keep you out of trouble." But Meyer knew Charlie better than that. Long stretches of time at home with his parents always got Charlie down, even if he never said anything about it. He gave a big smile and offered Meyer another large hug, sneaking another whiff of _just a little product_. "That was real sweet of you, Mey."

Meyer looked up at Charlie with a shy smile, and for a second, Charlie thought of scooping him back into his arms. But he was broken from the thought by the sound of Meyer slamming his locker shut. "Now hurry up. You're late to class often enough already." 

Charlie scoffed and knelt to put the DVDs into his backpack; they fit with room to spare, as he carried little in the way of books or binders. "The fuck do I care? I got gym next period anyway." 

"Well, I have an important class and I need to go. Even if Mr. Torrio’s subbing today, it's still best not to be late." 

Charlie perked up. "Torrio's your sub?" He remembered Meyer saying that his history teacher was out sick all week, but he didn't know _Torrio_ was the sub. Everyone wanted Torrio as a substitute teacher. He'd been working for the school for too long, and he was practically counting down the months until he could retire. As a result, he didn't give a shit and it was a sure way to get out of the busy work that teachers left in their absence.  

Meyer set off down the hall and Charlie followed close behind. Meyer eyed him with mingled confusion and worry. "What are you doing, Charlie? The gym is that way…" But he sighed and said, “Alright fine. But keep your head down.” Charlie promised to be good as gold, and they both knew it was a promise destined to be broken. 

They entered the classroom just as the bell rang. Meyer took his seat and Charlie claimed the one beside him. There were books on it already, but nobody was in the chair. 

"You really want to sit through AP US with me?" Meyer asked in a whisper as Mr. Torrio cleared his throat and ambled to the front of the room. The older man stared down at the attendance sheet with squinting eyes and a look of indifference. 

Charlie shrugged. "I can dig history, for you."  

He didn’t get a chance to see Meyer’s reaction. There was a rough tapping on his shoulder and Charlie turned to stare up at a scrawny boy with a bush of curly hair and a sharpened pencil clutched in his knuckles like a weapon. "You're in my seat. And this isn’t your class."  

"Fuck off, Willie,” Charlie growled and turned back to Meyer, but Willie Thompson insisted. 

"Get out of my seat!"  

"Is there a problem?" Torrio looked over at the commotion. Before Willie could so much as open his mouth to respond, Torrio waved him off with a lazy hand. "William, find your seat. No arguments! I don't want to hear it. The bell rung. Sit down." 

Willie scowled at Charlie, grumbling that he _had_ found his seat but somebody had pilfered it while he sharpened his pencil. “I’ll lodge that pencil up your ass if you don’t shut up,” Charlie muttered in an undertone. Silent and glaring, Willie grabbed his books off the top of his desk and retreated to the empty seat diagonal from his own. Torrio continued with attendance, passed out a worksheet, and told them to work quietly in small groups so he could leave a good report for Mr. Weiss. 

The moment Torrio had finished giving the instructions, Willie's hand shot into the air. Torrio just stared at him. "What? What do you want?" 

"He's not in this class," he blurted and pointed an accusing finger at Charlie. Torrio's gaze moved to him and he sighed, shaking his head. "Charlie, what are you doing here?" 

He glanced down at the worksheet and then back up to Torrio. "Tryin' to educate myself on the Dust Bowl, Mr. Torrio," he said in a voice of forced politeness. 

The man was not convinced of his sincerity, but he did nothing about it. "Behave and you can stay. But one peep out of you and it's off to wherever you're supposed to be, capisce?" 

Charlie saluted and asked Meyer for a pencil, which he handed over with a judgmental expression and a question of, "Why do you never have these?" Meyer scoffed and said that he should have gotten Charlie a pack of pencils for his birthday instead. Charlie reminded him that there was always Christmas. 

The desks grated against the floor as students rearranged themselves to sit with their friends and work on the handout. Torrio sat himself behind Mr. Weiss's desk and took out the day's newspaper, leaving the class to their work under his loose supervision. Charlie occupied himself by making a rude doodle of Willie Thompson in the margins of his worksheet. Meyer flipped through his history book with diligence and wrote each answer in tiny, precise handwriting. They whispered back and forth to each other about everything except the Dust Bowl. 

“We oughta do somethin’ fun for New Year’s. You, me, and Benny,” Charlie suggested halfway through class. “I don’t think my family’s doin’ nothin’. My dad’ll get drunk and they’ll watch the ball drop and that’s about it, so I don’t think anybody’s gonna miss me if I go out.” 

Meyer said nothing. Charlie looked up from the “I have a little penis” speech bubble he was embellishing around his portrait of Willie Thompson and saw that Meyer was engrossed in his phone. There was a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, threatening to break over his whole face, in the same look of bashful happiness he gave Charlie from time to time. He always thought Meyer looked real cute when he smiled like that. 

But Meyer wasn’t one to text during school, not usually. “What’s that?” Charlie asked. Meyer flinched and shoved his phone away, looking both startled and guilty, even as he continued to smile to himself. 

"It's nothing. Just… My mother wants to me to pick up groceries after school. That's all." Meyer cleared his throat and returned to blushing down at his history textbook. Charlie didn't believe him for a second—Meyer was usually a much better liar—but he wasn't going to push it. He stared at him a moment longer, before adjusting his chair a little closer so that he could look over Meyer’s textbook to read a paragraph on the New Deal. It wasn’t like it grabbed his interest, but Meyer’s attention was slipping from him and Charlie wanted it back. 

"I oughta come to class with you more often. I like it better gettin' to hang out with you," Charlie said in a soft voice and nudged Meyer with his shoulder. He was hoping to elicit another smile.  

But Meyer just shook his head, flipped the page, and told Charlie to to help him find the paragraph about the Soil Conservation and Domestic Allotment Act. “There will be no getting sappy in history class, Charlie.” 

“So I should save it for later?” Charlie asked. He spotted the section Meyer was looking for and plopped his finger on it.

Meyer nodded in thanks and began to copy the information. “My preferred time for sappiness is never. You know this,” he said. He nudged Charlie and pointed down at his drawing with a grin. “Looks just like him.” Charlie laughed and started drawing a cannon, firing right at his crotch, as Meyer abandoned his work to watch in appreciation. 

* * *

 Jimmy groaned with frustration, his clay-caked hands tightening into fists on the table. "This fuckin' thing…" he grumbled. Across the table, Richard cocked his head to the side and studied Jimmy's falling-apart clay structure. 

"Very. Abstract," he said. Richard carefully smoothed the edges on an elegant bowl. He had a real knack for art that Jimmy didn’t share. Last month, Richard made a collage-mural that Miss Ionatti praised for weeks. His paintings were pretty good, too. Jimmy, on the other hand, was not so artistically gifted. 

"It's not supposed to be abstract!" he protested. "It's supposed to be a person!"  

On his left, Pearl chimed in, "You might want to try adding a neck." 

Irritably, Jimmy ripped the head off his statue, pounding a hunk of clay on top of the body, and then secured the head back on. "There. There's the fuckin' neck. Better?”

"You don't need to get so angry," she chided with a giggle, scooting closer and abandoning her own project for a moment. "Here, if you let me help you—" 

"I don't need help—" But Jimmy's protests were interrupted as Miss Ionatti appeared at their table. 

"Is everything alright?" she asked in her gentle voice, looking from project to project to project. She smiled in approval at them all. "Jimmy, I like what you're doing! It's so creative—very abstract."  

He beamed up at her. "Yeah, yeah, that—that's what I was going for, yeah." He laughed and turned towards her, accidentally knocking one of the tools to the floor. He ignored it and kept talking. "I was really inspired by, uh—" Jimmy squinted at the wall past her shoulder, where she had a poster-version of that guy with the apple in front of his face. On construction paper, she had mounted a little blurb about the artist, but Jimmy could only make out the name from this distance. "By René Magritte. Yeah, he was pretty abstract, you know, and he speaks to me…" 

Angela's smile was warm and gentle. "Actually, Jimmy, he was a surrealist.” She gave a light laugh and added, "But I'm impressed that you're getting into the history. Keep up the good work." 

Jimmy opened his mouth to ask what the difference was between surreal and abstract art, just to keep her around for more conversation. But she was already off to the next table, surveying their work and offering help to a struggling student. He looked after her a moment, and then turned to smile absently down at his statue as he rolled spare bits of clay between his fingers.  

Richard cleared his throat. "I thought you said. It wasn't. Supposed to be. Abstract." 

Jimmy flicked a ball of clay at his face. "Don't question my artistic talent," he teased with a laugh. Richard brushed the piece of clay aside and asked, stiff and awkward as was his manner, "Do you. Like her?" 

"Like her—? What, no, Richard, she—I mean, she's the teacher, c'mon man," Jimmy blundered, leaning forward and lowering his voice as his face burned pink. No, of course he didn't have a crush on— "Okay, fine, I do. But whatever. It's harmless."

Pearl rolled her eyes and retuned to work on the neck of her vase with pointed determination. "Some love story," she grumbled. "Don't be a creep, Jimmy." 

"I'm not being a creep!" he protested. He glanced around to make sure she was still busy helping the student whose project was collapsing in on itself. "It's not like I'm buying her flowers and asking her out on dates." He looked to Richard to back him up, but Richard only shrugged. 

Aggravated, Jimmy returned to work on his project in silence. He didn't see what the big deal was; it was just a crush. She was pretty and intelligent and artistic. She was a good person and transferring into her art class after he hurt his leg helped clear his mind. He didn't know it before, but art was a good way to get out stress, the way football used to. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t good at it; it was fun. He had enough worry—with college applications and schoolwork and affording tuition—without Richard and Pearl getting on his case about some crush.  

The statue was for Ma, too. Like he first told Richard, it wasn't supposed to be abstract. It was just supposed to be a person, nice-looking and pretty and elegant, the kind of thing Ma would love having up on a shelf. He was trying to make it look like one of those Roman things; they were all about statues, weren’t they? She liked nice things and she deserved them. She did her best to provide for Jimmy and if some dumb statue from art class would make her smile, then Jimmy would make her that. Besides, she was getting weird about him going off to college. She didn't have other kids or a husband like other people's parents. He worried about leaving her. A little reminder that he'd always be back couldn't hurt.  

Jimmy cleared away his frustration with a sigh. "Can you help me with the neck?" he asked Pearl in a low voice. "I want it to look nice." 

Pearl looked up at him over the lip of her vase. For a moment, Jimmy thought she might say no. But she just shook her head in amusement, long brown hair swaying from side to side, and she inched her chair over to his project. "You ever seen anyone with a neck that thick?" 

He pinched the clay between his fingers and pulled off the excess. "Guess not. Well, except Big Jim, that hall monitor."

Pearl chuckled and nudged him with her shoulder. “Play nice—just because you can’t keep things in proportion…” 

“I’m not the one with a vase that looks like a bong,” he teased. 

Indignant, she slapped his shoulder. “It’s a work-in-progress! At least it’s vase _shaped,_ unlike this _whatever it is_ —” She waved her hand overtop of Jimmy’s sculpture and they both laughed. 

For the rest of class, Pearl worked by his side. They exchanged a mixture of jibes and encouragement as they tried to turn Jimmy’s statue into something that was recognizably human. She went back and forth between his project and her own. By the time the bell rang, his project still looked like a multi-limbed alien blob and hers still looked like a bong. But at least there was something distinctly more human-ish and vase-ish about both of them. It was a start. 

At the end of class, they stored their projects on the trays in the back room. Richard stood waiting for Jimmy, and Pearl cast a lingering look at them too, but Jimmy waved them both away. "I gotta stay after class a minute and talk to Miss Ionatti."  

Richard blinked and Pearl said, "Oh?" 

He could feel their judgment already. Jimmy shooed them with his hands, explaining that it was just a question about college. Nothing creepy, he promised. Richard and Pearl left without him—and without any further suspicious comments on his motivation. First smoothing back his hair, Jimmy approached the supply closet, where she was gathering paints for the next class.  

"Hey, Miss Ionatti…" 

She turned with surprise, but that same welcoming expression was soon on her face. "Yes, Jimmy, hi. Can I help you with something?" 

"Well, uh, I'm applying to colleges and everything and I was wondering… I thought maybe you could write me a good letter of recommendation," he fumbled. He didn’t know why he was so nervous; it wasn’t like he was asking a girl to prom or something. 

Miss Ionatti—arms full of supplies—smiled at him. “I'd be happy to! Where are you applying?" 

"A couple places. Rutgers, Montclair, Temple…” In a rushed undertone, he added, “And Princeton. I mean, it's a reach school, so it’s not like I’m expecting anything.”

"This isn't the time to sell yourself short, Jimmy," she advised. “Be proud of your accomplishments.” She had such an earnest look to her that Jimmy almost believed what she said. Together, they passed back into the classroom and she started setting paints and brushes on each table. "When’s the deadline for your application?” 

"I think Princeton does rolling admission, so the sooner the better." But then he felt bad about putting pressure on her for a favor. Quickly, he added, "But don't worry if you're busy. Just, if you can.” 

Angela laughed and straightened out her smock. She brushed her hands across the myriad of dried paint splatters she'd acquired over the years—or maybe over the week, knowing her. Pieces of her own artwork hung around the classroom. Jimmy liked to get there early each day and admire them. Angela jotted his name on a Post-It note and stuck it to her desk. "I'll write you a good letter and give it to guidance ASAP. Don’t worry." 

Jimmy beamed. "Thanks so much. It means a lot." She assured him that it would be a pleasure, and that she enjoyed having him in class. He blushed as he swung his backpack over his shoulder and continued fighting a smile all the way calculus. 

* * *

During her free period, Margaret stood at the counter in the corner of the staff lounge, preparing herself a cup of tea in the Keurig. It didn’t taste as good, when the tea came out of that little cup instead of through a bag. That, and there always seemed to be little bits of coffee grinds floating in her mug. But practicality had to be accounted for and Margaret would make do with any hot beverage that came her way. She drew her cardigan tight around her shoulders; there was a dreadful draft coming in through the windows. She cupped her hands around the hot mug for a moment, trying to warm herself and relax.  

"What'cha drinking?" asked a slightly nasal voice from beside her. 

"Good afternoon," she greeted politely to Dean, a biology teacher. She told him that it was just a nice cup of Earl Grey, before glancing down to what occupied his attention on the counter. "What is it you've got there?" 

He was known for decorating the staff lounge with nice flowers. In the spring months, there were all sorts of little plastic pots from Home Depot lining the windowsill, filled with blooming buds. But on that day, he had the most curious looking plant and a small jar of what Margaret thought were tiny uncooked noodles. He was carefully placing the noodles onto the plant's leaves with a pair of tweezers.  

“Venus Fly Trap," he explained, clicking the tweezers as he gestured. He set another noodle in what Margaret realized was a mouth of sorts. "Yeah, gotta make sure she eats all her dried worms. You want any?" 

Dean laughed and held the container out towards her, while a startled Margaret slid her cup of tea away, trying not to look as revolted as she felt. "No. Thank you. I only take a bit of cream." 

He chuckled and said, “Suit yourself,” as Margaret retrieved a small container of half-and-half and emptied the contents into her mug. She still felt as though she ought to say something polite, while Dean placed those little worms with a serene sort of happiness. The best she could do was, "It looks healthy. Very green." 

"Yeah, she's a real beauty, this one," he answered and caressed the side of its pot. 

They fell back into silence as she stirred the creamer around her tea. Was there any sort of protocol for how to carry on a conversation about unusual plants? Thankfully, Arnold appeared on her other side, mug in hand, and she was able to direct her attention to him instead. 

"How are you this afternoon?" she asked. His response was a non-verbal noise of indifference. She paused and waited for more, but he offered nothing. The stream of coffee plunking against the ceramic cup and the metallic clicking of Dean's tweezers were the only sounds as she gripped her tea and waited for an answer. 

Margaret slid over in silence to make room for Arnold to prepare his drink on the counter. He was staring with a glazed look across his face, as he reached for a packet of sugar. He tore it open and dumped it in. He reached for another, then another, then another. By the fifth packet of sugar, Margaret grew worried about his trance-like state and his desire for hyper-sweet coffee. Neither seemed particularly normal. As he reached for packet number six, she put her hand out to stop him. "Arnold? What is it?" 

He looked up with startled innocence. "Nothing, I'm just making coffee." 

"With that much sugar?" she asked, skeptical. Arnold noticed the pile of empty packets by his hand.  

"Oh, that is very many…" he said as though realizing it for the first time. With a light touch on his arm, Margaret led him over to their usual lunch table. "Won't you tell me what's wrong? Is it more… problems at home?" she asked, remembering a month prior when he had disclosed his divorce. 

"I spoke with my lawyer last period," he explained. “Carolyn would like to meet sometime this week to… sign things.” 

He sighed and raised the cup to his lips. Margaret sprung forward to stop him, but she was too late. Arnold took a sip and grimaced, lips puckered and eyes wide. 

“I don’t think you ought to drink that,” Margaret advised in a soft voice. “It must be rather sweet, even for you.”

Arnold swallowed with disgust and set the mug on the table with a distinct thud. “Perhaps that’s best,” he agreed. 

Margaret was growing concerned about the effects of the divorce on his well-being. Such splits were never easy, but the man was distracted, distant, and seemed to be retreating into himself. Though they were only colleagues, she had always known him as a sharp, intelligent man with an admirable wit and an impish love of mischief. She saw none of that as he contemplated his overly-sugared coffee. "Perhaps," she began, unsure if it were her place to say, "it would help if you were to see someone." 

Arnold's controlled expression turned to a look of shock. Flustered, he began several sentences that he didn't quite complete. "Miss Rohan, Margaret—I just don't know if dating is something I could really—" 

Margaret laughed, amused as well as embarrassed. "I meant, perhaps a therapist." 

He sobered quickly. "Oh. Right, a therapist—Well, I'm not so sure I need that either, thank you," he answered in a curt tone that Margaret did not appreciate.  

She offered a knowing expression over the rim of her mug, as she sipped her tea. "You're a guidance counselor. Surely you recognize the benefits of your own profession?" 

His answer was interrupted by an enraged shout from the opposite end of the room that startled them both. Gyp, a chemistry teacher Margaret avoided at all costs, was having a tantrum at the Keurig machine.  

"Who left the K-Cup in the machine?" he yelled, ripping the little piece of plastic from the machine. He crumpled it in his hands and threw it, with tremendous force, onto the floor. "It's called a little fuckin' COMMON DECENCY!"  

Dean tried to calm him, saying, “Accidents happen, Gyp. I’m sure nobody meant any harm by it.” But that only made him the target of Gyp’s mounting rage. 

"Accidents, huh? Is it gonna be an accident when I shove my fuckin' mug all the way up your scrawny little ass? Is responsibility _too goddamn much_ to ask for?" he demanded, rounding on them all with ferocity in his eyes. Dean ventured a few more timid words of complacency. Margaret turned back to Arnold, determined not to give Gyp an audience. 

"Nobody is expecting you to handle this on your own. Divorce is diffi—" 

But Gyp’s yelling made it impossible to carry on any sort of decent conversation. With a heavy sigh, Margaret stood. She straightened the front of her cardigan and strode across the room, her shoes faintly clacking on the linoleum floor.  

"Mr. Rosetti," she said evenly, standing before him with her arms folded. "Do you have hands?" 

His anger flickered into an expression of skeptical confusion. "Yeah… Two of ‘em, even." 

"Well then, here's all that you need to do." Glaring, Margaret knelt and picked up the K-Cup from the floor. She strode to the trashcan, dropped it in, and turned back to Gyp. "Do you think you're capable of that?" 

"Hey listen, that ain't my responsibility. It wasn’t my coffee—" 

"No, it wasn’t," Margaret interrupted with a huff. "We all ought to clean up after ourselves. But it _is_ your responsibility to conduct yourself as an adult, and not throw a temper tantrum at the slightest inconvenience. Or perhaps you'd best return to school yourself, until you learn how to behave properly." 

Gyp scowled at her, but said nothing. He grabbed his cup of coffee from the Keurig and retreated into the corner, to sulk and sip. Margaret exhaled with determined calm, before returning to her table with Arnold.

“That was something,” he said with a smile. 

“I cannot abide men who rant and rave and accomplish nothing,” she said by way of explanation, before continuing as though nothing had happened. There were more important conversations to be had, after all. “When my first husband and I were going through our divorce, it helped to have someone to speak with." 

Arnold’s face fell. Without looking up from his cup of over-sugared coffee, he asked, "Did you find it difficult? To move on?” 

Margaret pursed her lips and took a sip of tea. “No. I can’t say that I did.” Her divorce with Hans had not been easy, though not due to any heartbreak. But that had been years ago and she seldom thought about him. Emily had been just a baby at the time and Teddy little more than a toddler. In a soft voice, she added, “Though we’ve all had to endure broken hearts, haven’t we?” 

She was thankful to be rid of Hans, but that didn’t mean she’d never lost anyone dear. Yet Margaret thought it enough to offer her sympathy to Arnold, while sparing him the details of her own experiences. He didn’t need to hear them and she didn’t need to rehash old events over lunch in the staff lounge. It was not the place for it, if there were such a place at all. 

“Try a therapist. I worry about you, Arnold,” she said with gentle assertion. She was far too aware that many eyes in the staff lounge were still on her.

Arnold nodded and raised the coffee to his lips out of habit, before remembering its contents and putting it back down. “I’ll consider it.” 

Margaret smiled. At least it was a start, she reasoned.  

* * *

In the last class before winter break, Mr. Doyle decided to give a lesson on gravity. The class headed outside to the bleachers, with everyone bundled up in their thick coats. Their arms were filled with binders, notebooks, and an assortment of bizarre objects, including—but not limited to—two pumpkins, an old computer monitor, a pillow, a basketball, and an oversized gooseneck gourd that Richard cradled like an oddly-shaped child. 

Meyer’s shoes crunched on the grass turned brittle with frost. He balanced a calculator, a stopwatch, three pencils (just in case), and a store-bought cherry pie on top of his binder. He walked with care, as Mr. Doyle would probably be angry if he dropped the pie _before_ they got to the bleachers. From behind, he heard a rapid crunching of footsteps and then, Frank was at his side. 

“You need a hand carrying anything?” he offered with a broad smile. Meyer glanced down at his hands. 

“I think I can carry a pie without much difficulty. It isn’t what you'd call _heavy,”_ he replied. As he glanced up to offer a dry grin, his shoe caught the edge of a large stone stuck in the ground. He stumbled forward, everything sliding with the sudden jerk of movement. Meyer caught the pie before its premature death, but his pencils and calculator went tumbling to the grass. 

He stared at them. Maybe if he stayed absolutely still, Frank would just go away and they would never have to speak about this moment ever again. At least the pie was safe. At least Meyer had been spared that humiliation. 

But Frank did not just go away. Instead, he laughed and stooped to collect Meyer’s things, slipping them into his coat pocket. “I’ll look after you,” Frank promised with such a smile that Meyer almost lost the pie again. 

Thankfully, they soon reached the bleachers. Mr. Doyle divided the class in half—sending group A to the top of the bleachers and keeping group B with him on the ground. Meyer trudged up the many, _many—_ fuck, why were there so many?—steps to the top. Frank strode easily by his side all the way up. They set their belongings down on the top metal seat. Meyer had his pie and Frank took a tennis ball from his pocket—along with the pencils he had rescued from Meyer earlier. Beside them, Jimmy was helping Richard disentangle the gourd from his scarf. 

“Alright! You up there!” Mr. Doyle shouted to them through a megaphone. “We’re gonna _take turns._ Don’t drop anything until I say so, unless you want to make pancakes out of us down here, eheheh.” His giggled amplified across the empty school grounds. 

“We’re dropping?” Meyer glanced at Frank for confirmation. “Not throwing? Dropping?” 

Frank shrugged and then—less opposed to shouting than Meyer—called down to Mr. Doyle for an answer. Through his megaphone, Mr. Doyle announced that they were, in fact, _dropping,_ and they were to drop straight down and not throw any large or heavy objects at their teacher. 

“This is a pointless exercise,” Meyer grumbled as he blew into his already freezing hands and rubbed them together. 

“Why?” Jimmy asked. He had his hands buried deep in his pockets as he waited for Mr. Doyle's signal.  

"Because," Meyer explained with a sigh, “without an initial velocity, gravity will pull them all down with the same acceleration. There's no sense in measuring how long it takes, as it's all gong to be the same. Unless, of course, there's drag, but I doubt that would be statistically significant in this experiment." 

Jimmy, Richard, and Frank stared at him. Meyer bowed his head into his notebook, eyes on the pointless chart they were supposed to complete. He was freezing, he was unhappy, and Mr. Doyle was wasting their time to prove a point he could have explained from the warmth of their classroom. Frank laughed and scooted along the bleacher until they were pressed shoulder to shoulder.  

"Didn't know you could talk so dirty, Lansky," he teased, nudging him. "Physics talk, it's a real turn on." 

Meyer threw a quick glance to Jimmy and Richard—who had stopped paying attention to him—and turned back to Frank with a faint smile. "I bet you say that to all your lab partners." 

"Only the attractive ones." 

Damn. He was smoother than Meyer could have predicted. Well, fuck. He didn't have a response to that, but Mr. Doyle and his megaphone had impeccable timing—for once.  

"Alright. Which of you kids has the first pumpkin?"  

Meyer pretended his brief conversation with Frank never happened, as he turned towards the pair of senior girls at the other end of the bleachers, holding a large pumpkin aloft over their heads. Mr. Doyle announced "Go!" through his megaphone, and the pumpkin fell towards the earth, splattering on the ground and showering two kids in pumpkin guts. Mr. Doyle laughed and said that maybe they ought to stand back a little more. They continued down the row, dropping their objects. The computer monitor shattered into bits. The basketballs bounced and rolled away and the neck snapped off of Richard's gourd.  

Wobbling on the balls of his feet, Meyer tried to raise his cherry pie over the chain link fence that ran along the back row of the stadium to keep people from falling to unfortunate deaths. But he couldn’t quite reach. He teetered on the tips of his toes, and then Frank’s hands were on his waist, holding him steady. “Maybe I ought to do it,” he suggested. 

Meyer resented the implication that he couldn’t throw a fucking pie over a fence—he’d manage, thank you very much—but he didn’t get the chance to say anything about it. 

“How’s about I do it!” a voice called out. Al Capone—miraculously clad in gym shorts and a tee shirt, despite the temperature—was jogging up the stadium steps towards them. 

“The fuck, Al? Where’d you come from?” his brother demanded as Al plucked the pie right from Meyer’s hands. 

Al shrugged, toying with his phone. “Gym class. Thompson’s got us out here playin’ soccer. Thought I’d come see all the fun you guys are havin’.” 

"I would _appreciate_ if you'd—" Meyer tried to grab his pie back, but Al deflected him with a push of his muscular shoulder. He stepped past them both and, even though he wasn't _much_ taller than Meyer, he could reach. Holding his phone and Meyer's pie aloft, Al yelled, "HEY WILLIE! WHAT’S UP?"  

Willie Thompson looked up just as Al threw the pie. It launched over the fence, spun towards the earth, and splattered right on the head of Willie Thompson, who collapsed to the ground. Al cheered. Everyone else gasped. Face alight with a manic grin, Al replayed the footage on his phone. “Aw, that’s beautiful. That’s goin’ on Vine. They’ll love it.” 

"Snorky! What the fuck!" Frank laughed as he peered down at Willie Thompson, whose face and sweatshirt were covered in pie. He slapped his brother in the arm, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mr. Doyle rushed over, clearing students out of the way, and he finally turned to glare up at them on the bleachers. "Lansky! What part of _drop_ do you not understand!" 

Meyer reddened and shoved Al, who only laughed harder at Meyer taking the blame. "This is not my fault!” he shouted, though no one was listening. 

Al was practically wheezing with amusement as he explained the whole thing in an undertone to Frank. "—so I tells him, ‘come on over, let's check out what’s goin on.’ We go runnin' over from gym class, tell him to stand down there… not expecting a thing and then WHAM! Right in the fuckin' face—" 

“Coach Thompson,” Mr. Doyle announced into the megaphone. “Please report to the bleachers. Your son has been pie’d.” 

A couple kids were nice enough to help Willie sit up and brush bits of pie off his clothes. He didn’t seem hurt—just dazed and annoyed. Meyer sunk down to the bleacher, seething, as everyone around him tried to decide if it was okay to laugh. Jimmy kept insisting, “Al, that’s not cool,” but there was a snicker in his voice. Richard was the only one who wasn’t in stitches over the whole thing, as he quietly asked, “Do you think he’s. Okay?” 

"WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY SON!" Coach Thompson shouted, running over from the soccer field. 

Mr. Doyle continued speaking into the megaphone, even though Coach Thompson was right in front of him. He could barley contain his amusement. "Calm down, Elias. It's just a little physics, eheheh." 

"CALM DOWN! LOOK AT HIM! IS THAT BLOOD?" 

Mr. Doyle swiped his finger through the mess on Willie's head and licked it off his finger. "No. Cherry."  

"Fucking hell, Mickey!"  

"Now Elias, watch your language. The children, remember?" 

"I'll fuckin' wring your neck if you keep callin’ me Elias—" 

Frank squatted down in front of Meyer and tapped on his kneecaps; Meyer looked up with a glare. "What? You're not upset that he messed with your data, are you?" Frank teased. 

"No, I am _cold_ and I am _fed up_ and I'd really rather be inside learning something _useful_ instead of proving a _basic, inane formula—_ " 

Frank unbuttoned his coat. With his hands in the pockets, he hugged Meyer, wrapping the open flaps across his back and squeezing him into his chest. Meyer squirmed with surprise, but Frank held him tight. "How about I warm you up? " He must have noticed Meyer's nerves, because he added, in a whisper into his ear, "C'mon nobody cares. They're all too worried about the Thompson-Doyle Smackdown." 

Meyer gave a thin chuckle and relaxed against the warmth of Frank's torso. "I guess so…"

Al shouted goodbye to his brother as Coach Thompson yelled for him to "get his scrawny ass down there _now_ , unless he wanted to run laps around the football field from now until next season." 

A girl from their class helped Willie up and walked the dazed, disgruntled boy off to see Nurse Mueller. His pride seemed to be hurt more than his head as he stumbled off across the field. But Coach Thompson was taking it worst of all, as he continued to berate Mr. Doyle. He grabbed their physics teacher by the arm and dragged him out of earshot. Mr. Doyle refused to break his insolent grin, as Coach Thompson's face got redder and redder, as he got up close to Mr. Doyle’s face. 

"You think they're banging each other?" 

"What?" Meyer stared up at Frank, who repeated his question. Meyer didn't have an answer.  

"Looks like a lot of sexual tension to me," Frank commented. "Bet they're gonna take this back to Coach Thompson's office and finish up there," he said with a low chuckle. Meyer gave a half-amused "heh" and snuggled closer to Frank, who rested his chin on top of Meyer's head. He didn’t care too much about Coach Thompson and Mr. Doyle and what Frank thought was going on, but at least the lab hadn’t been terrible. Charlie would get a kick out of what happened to Willie—even if he hated Al. They could watch the Vine on the bus ride home. 

Frank started rubbing his hands against Meyer’s back. “Looks like gravity still works. We learned a valuable lesson.” 

Meyer laughed. "Good thing we had this lab to reassure us," he replied sarcastically. With a grin, he added, "Good to know that all physical bodies still attract to each other." 

Caught off guard, Frank stammered. Meyer grinned in triumph at out-witting him, mentally congratulating himself for managing to flirt using _gravity._ That certainly made up for his earlier clumsiness and embarrassment. He was convinced that Frank could not say a _single thing_ that could possibly be better, until— 

“Let’s hang out over winter break, just you and me.”

It wasn’t smooth and it wasn’t clever, but Meyer was speechless. He nodded vigorously into Frank’s chest and smiled, convinced that it was going to be the best winter break he’d ever had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/88817066464/nobody-wants-to-be-in-school-forever-chapter-two)


	3. Winter Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the holiday season arrives, Margaret celebrates tradition with her children, while Jimmy and Gillian share a quiet Christmas together. Meanwhile, the New Year brings changes in the Rothstein house that aren't worth celebrating. Charlie, Meyer, and Benny spend their time away from school acting out and at the mercy of their hormones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: sexual content in last section
> 
> chapter three on[ tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/94170175084/nobody-wants-to-be-in-school-forever-chapter)

“The tree is ready to decorate,” Margaret said as she stood in the doorway to the living room. 

On the TV, animated talking animals were singing a chirpy little tune in a watered down retelling of _A Christmas Carol._ The three of them watched many of the classic children’s films together, but this one was unfamiliar to her, and it served as a good distraction while she readied the tree. 

Later on—once she’d put the children to bed—Margaret would stay up with her cup of tea and _It’s a Wonderful Life_. Of course, that all depended on whether she had the energy for it. She found herself dozing on the couch more and more often. Christmas films were not the same by yourself. 

“After it’s over, Momma, please?” Emily asked in a soft voice. Teddy’s eyes were too glued to the screen for him to respond. 

“Of course, dear. Why don’t I make us some hot chocolate?” 

That got her son’s attention. “I want marshmallows in mine!” Teddy called out, while Emily said, “Could I have whipped cream please?” in her little voice. Margaret smiled, reminded Teddy to ask nicely, and then went off to the kitchen to start preparations. 

She set three mugs on the counter and, ignoring the microwave, poured milk straight into a pot and set it on the stove. It was the way her mother always made hot chocolate; microwaved milk just didn’t taste right to her. 

Remembering, too, what her mother always said about a watched pot, Margaret returned to the living room, to check once more that everything was in order. The tree was in its stand in the corner—an armchair moved out of the way to make room—and the lights were strung around the branches. Teddy and Emily didn't have much patience for light-stringing. Truth be told, neither did Margaret, as it was only an exercise in patience and untying knots. But it needed to be done. Owen had a knack for it, she always remembered. He was good with his hands, dexterous in a way that Margaret was not. 

She removed the small boxes within, their cardboard edges frayed and worn with age, as her Christmas ornaments were inherited, not newly store-bought. This distraction did not last long and Margaret soon returned to the kitchen, away from the string of lights and the memories of past Christmases.  

She prepared the hot chocolate—marshmallows for Teddy and whipped cream for Emily and plain for her own—and went to fetch the children. Their program had just ended. Teddy switched off the TV, Emily picked up her crutches, and the three of them moved to the living room. Margaret turned on Christmas music from the radio in the corner and they set to work.  

"Whose turn is it this year to place the first ornament?" Margaret asked, as her excited children gathered around the tree. It was short and full, with dense branches. Their living room had smelled of pine needles ever since they bought it last weekend. Emily named the tree ‘Susan’ and designated herself as the tree-waterer each day. 

"Mine!" Teddy answered. "Emily did it last year." 

But Emily frowned and shook her head. "That means it's Momma's turn," she protested. 

“I'll let take Teddy have my turn, my darling baby." But she could not help but smile at Emily's thoughtfulness. 

She held out a box of ornaments to Teddy, who selected a shiny red one and placed it on the tree. Emily and Margaret clapped, as the Official Tree Decorating Ceremony began. 

They made quick work of it. Margaret decorated the top branches that neither child could reach, but she paused often to snap pictures of the children on her cellphone. Teddy was eager to fill the branches with as many ornaments as they could possibly hold, in all places that he could possibly reach. He only broke one—which was a record low, given his typical three—as his haste kept him from making sure the hook was actually _on_ the branch before letting go. Emily, in contrast, was thoughtful and deliberate, pausing to examine the tree in search of the perfect place for each ornament. She "had to keep the colors fair," she explained, hanging an ornament with one hand while leaning on her forearm crutch with the other. 

The tree was nearly finished, when a knock at the door interrupted them.  

Teddy tore across the room, shouting “I’ll get it!” and almost overturned the stack of empty ornament boxes in the process. “Yeah?” he said as he wrenched open the door. Cordelia from across the street stood on their porch, with her three little ones—the middle girl was Emily’s age—all bundled up in their winter coats. Teddy stared at them with a striped Christmas ornament still clutched in his hand. 

“Well hello Teddy,” Cordelia greeted, stooping to his eye-level. “Are you helping your mother with the Christmas tree?” He nodded and Cordelia glanced into the living room, praising the fine job Emily and Teddy had done. 

Looking to Margaret as she stood back to her full height, Cordelia explained, "I'm taking them down to the park to build snowmen. Would yours like to come along?" 

“We should finish the tree first—” But both Emily and Teddy interrupted her with enthusiasm to go to the park. A fresh snow fell last night and they were eager to play. “I think that settles it,” she laughed. “We can hang our last few ornaments tonight.” 

She invited the little group inside, as it would take a minute to get her children dressed for the outdoors—Teddy especially, given his distaste for mittens. 

“Emily, mind yourself, my dear,” Margaret said in a soft tone, as she helped her daughter step into a pair of snowpants. She kissed the top of her bobbled woolen hat and glanced up to Cordelia with a flash of worry. “She should be alright—she's steady and she's strong, but with the ice… Just make sure she's careful and that you watch out for any slippery patches." Emily had grown adept with her crutches over the years. But nothing in the world would ever stop Margaret worrying over the welfare of her children.  

“I’ll be fine, Momma,” Emily chirped. Margaret smiled and replied, “I’ve no doubt you will.” 

As the children left the house, Margaret turned to admire the tree. It did look beautiful. She took a picture, set aside the boxes, and cleaned up the tinsel Teddy had scattered on the floor with his carelessness. The house felt suddenly too quiet, with Emily and Teddy gone. She didn’t like to be alone with the glimmering tree, as though its watchful eye measured her Christmas Cheer. 

Mind made up, Margaret left the house not a moment later, wrapping a scarf tight around her neck before brushing the ice and snow from the car’s windshield. There were a few groceries she needed to buy. It was always easiest to run her errands when she didn’t have to worry about Teddy wandering off or sneaking sugary cereals into the cart when she wasn’t looking. More than once, he’d tried to hide the boxes under his coat and walk out of the store with them. He never got too far, but it meant that Margaret always had to be on high alert when buying food with the children. 

The grocery store was crowded with pre-holiday shoppers, stocking up before their big Christmas meals. The tile floor squeaked from the melted snow dragged in by each shopper. “Santa Baby” played over the loudspeaker and Margaret cringed. She could not think of a more ridiculous song for Christmas time—especially with the rendition performed by Lucy at the staff holiday party still fresh in her mind. 

She found her few items with ease. As Margaret waited in the long checkout line, she noted a rack of wreaths, all wrapped in ribbons and garlands. She deliberated. But as Margaret neared the cashier, she selected a handsome one at the bottom of the rack and added it to the conveyor. Groceries and wreath in hand, Margaret left the store, returned to her car, and took a detour on the way home. 

The graveyard was always busy around Christmas. It was good, that people thought of their lost loved ones at such a time. Though she preferred solitude during her visits, she’d not feel selfish about other’s remembrances. She knew the way well, even though snow covered the path. Margaret’s boots crunched as she stepped with care, mindful not to step on anyone. 

The headstone was small, modest, and nestled beside a large marble cross memorializing someone called John. Margaret never paid him much attention, except to use him as a guide to Owen. 

Margaret knelt in the snow and carefully brushed the snow from his headstone with a gloved hand. She propped the wreath against it. It covered the years and the Gaelic epitaph, but not his name. She stared at the carved letters, fixating on the ‘O’, as though it were the charming face and laughing eyes she’d once loved. Though she had finally stopped wearing the engagement ring, Margaret would never stop her visits. 

“We decorated the tree today,” she said in a low voice. The chilled wind across the open expanse of ground made her shiver. Balanced on the balls of her feet, Margaret pulled her scarf up and buried her hands into her pockets. “Emily and Teddy are on break from school. She got all As on her last report card. Teddy’s got mostly Bs, but he’s behaving himself.” 

She smiled at the memory of Owen quizzing Teddy on his multiplication tables, bribing him with mini-Kit Kat bars if he correctly answered ten questions in a row. 

“Work is the same as ever. There’s hardly a dull moment with some of those students. They can be more a handful than Teddy.” She laughed, but the sound fell hollow against the ground. The bleak sky overhead—overcast in pale grey clouds—seemed to be threatening another bout of snow. 

“I don’t know that I’ll be back until after New Year’s,” she explained to the headstone with a touch of guilt. “You know how the holidays are. My sister, Nuala, you remember her? Well she’s just gotten engaged. She and her fianceé Caitlin will be having us for New Year’s.” 

She told him about the crafts Emily made in school, about Teddy’s little league team, about the book she’d just finished reading. But she wouldn’t tell him what happened at the end—she didn’t want to spoil it, silly though it felt to have such reservations. Owen never liked to know an ending before he got to it. She was thankful, then, that the accident had been quick, for Owen’s sake. At least he had not suffered. 

Margaret’s nose and ears were numb. Her mouth felt dry, from the cold air. But still she lingered, silent and crouched, staring at the wreath without seeing it. Finally, she pulled the glove from her hand and placed her fingers against the cold stone. “Merry Christmas. Nollaig Shona Duit,” Margaret whispered, before she rose to her feet and strode from the grave. 

* * *

 Meyer’s cellphone vibrated against the table. His mother cast him a look. 

“No texting during dinner, bubele,” she reminded, though he seldom forgot their house rule. He apologized but glanced at the screen all the same, unable to help himself. There were only two people whose texts mattered during dinner. Besides, that was his father’s rule and—as per usual—his father was working late at the garage and was not at the table. Therefore Meyer felt justified in unlocking his phone to check his messages. 

The second he saw Charlie’s name light up on the screen, all bets were truly off. He frowned at the words, “can i com over?” Concerned, he asked his mother if Charlie could join them. She never said no about Charlie, so Meyer sent back a quick text saying, "absolutely." By that point in their friendship, he was a regular feature in their household and he had thoroughly charmed Meyer’s mother into considering him a fourth son (after her own two and Benny). But Charlie didn’t often ask to come over without reason and Meyer always made sure he could stay as long as he needed—whether it was a couple of hours or crashing overnight in a sleeping bag on the floor. 

Not a minute later, the doorbell rang. Meyer had barely taken two bites since sending Charlie a text. It couldn't be him already, could it? But who else would be at their door in the evening? As Meyer got up from the table, Jake laughed and said, "If it's Jehovah's Witnesses, beat them with the Menorah." With a wry smile, Meyer promised that he would. He contemplated grabbing it, just in case, though his mother would surely be displeased by such an action. 

It was an altogether moot point, however, as Meyer opened the front door to find Charlie standing on the stoop, his breath coming in little puffs of cold air. He wore a thick sweatshirt instead of a coat. Little ridiculous tufts of hair stuck out from beneath the beanie on his head. 

"That was fast," he noted. 

Charlie shrugged. "I was almost here when I thought that maybe I oughta ask first. I woulda left, if you said no, but…” He shifted from foot to foot, before giving Meyer a playful shove. “You gonna let me freeze out here or what?" 

Meyer laughed. Of course Charlie had already been on his way over… Shaking his head, he stepped aside and let him into the house. Charlie unzipped his sweatshirt—he was wearing another one underneath, of a thinner material—and pulled off his hat. His curls sprang up into a fluffy mound and Meyer fought back a smile; he looked even more ridiculous, like a newly hatched chick.

But, for all the amusement of Charlie's unruly hair, his expression was drawn and tight. Looking him over properly, in the dim light of the living room, Meyer’s stomach knotted. He hated the all-too-familiar slow-burning anger in the set of his face, and hated more the wounded gaze he tried to keep buried in his dark eyes. It wasn’t something they talked about a lot, but unspoken understanding was a staple of their relationship. Meyer would never burden Charlie with questions he knew he didn’t want to answer. 

All the same, Meyer couldn’t resist reaching up to fix Charlie’s rumpled hair before leading him into the kitchen, brushing his fingers fleetingly through the tight, familiar curls.   

As they rounded the corner, Charlie's eyes widened at the sight of them gathered around the table—his mother, Jake, Esther, and the conspicuous empty plate from his father's absence. "Oh, you're eatin'. I wouldn't—I didn't wanna—" 

But his mother patted the empty chair belonging to Meyer's father. "You're too skinny, Charlie. Come, eat with us."  

The pair took their seats, and Charlie—with bashful slowness—spooned a heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate. Meyer smiled at him from across the table. "Try the chicken. Esther made it—she's got a gift." 

"For chicken?" 

Esther smacked him with her napkin. "No, for cooking!" She was only nine and she had a different hobby every week. At the start of the month, she was determined to become a marine biologist and begged Meyer to bring her to the library. He returned the stack of books on sharks and coral reefs when she decided that becoming a concert pianist was preferable. She downloaded a keyboard app on his phone and taught herself to play new songs whenever he wasn’t using it. Somewhere around Hanukkah, Esther resolved to become a world famous chef, so she was helping their mother make dinner every night. There was no telling what would interest her next—likely astrophysics or something of that ilk—but Meyer was eternally amused by her autodidactic avocations. 

“And I bet you’re real good at it, too,” Charlie grinned and stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork and dropped it onto his plate. “If you’re related to this one—” he gestured to Meyer with the end of his knife, “—then you gotta be sharp.”  

Though flattered, Meyer chose to laugh instead and brush it aside. “I can hardly call myself a good cook, Charlie. I do have my limitations.” 

“Like fuc— _furballs_ you do!” He stammered to catch himself from swearing. Meyer snorted and mouthed “furballs?” at Charlie with an enormous smile. Charlie shielded his lips from Esther’s view and mouthed “fuck you” while Meyer continued to stifle his laughter. 

"So Charlie," his mother said, to settle them down and stave off any profanity before it should chance to slip out, "how was the movie?" 

Meyer backwashed his entire sip of water back into his glass. Charlie looked at her with trademark confusion. "What movie?" 

"Yesterday, didn't you and Meyer go to the movies?” she pressed. When Charlie’s expression did not change, she regarded Meyer with a familiar shrewdness, as though trying to detect the lie in his face.  

In a rush, Meyer explained, " _Benny,_ Mom. I went with Benny. You must have forgotten. Isn't the chicken good?" he asked as soon as Charlie took a bite. Anything to change the subject…   

Thankfully, Esther started explaining to Charlie how she’d cooked it. Meyer was spared any questions about yesterday’s activities, as excited descriptions of how she “putted it in the oven and watched till it got nice” absorbed everyone’s attentions. 

He relaxed. He told his mother that he went to the movies with Charlie, but only because she was nosy. If he said “just a friend,” she'd ask which. If he said Frank, she'd ask who that was, why had Meyer never mentioned him before, did they have class together, who are his parents, what does he do, does he get good grades, are you getting into drugs? Meyer—to avoid the onslaught—settled for the simple and reliable lie of “just Charlie.” 

But apart from the fear that his mother (or Charlie) would find out he went on _a date,_ Meyer had an altogether wonderful time. Frank picked him up in his car, which was freshly vacuumed and had one of those little pine trees hanging from the rearview mirror. Meyer appreciated the attempts at cleanliness, though he did inform Frank that his air freshener was illegal as it obstructed his view. Frank removed it with some line about not wanting _anything_ to block his view as he stared pointedly at Meyer, who didn’t know whether to blush or roll his eyes. He probably did both, whether he wanted to or not. 

The plot of the movie was forgettable and clichéd. More than anything, Meyer remembered being too aware of Frank’s nearness beside him, of Frank holding his hand throughout the movie, of Frank treating him to a cup of coffee afterwards, and of Frank driving him home and kissing him in the front seat. He replayed that last part in his mind with particular frequency. 

“Have you had enough to eat?” 

Meyer realized he was smiling at his empty dinner plate, and promptly wiped the look from his face, fixing it back into something more stoic and manageable. God, he was letting some date with some boy get the better of him, which couldn’t be a wise decision. Correcting his behavior was, however, easier said than done, even with Meyer’s resolve. “Yes, I have,” he answered, with a stiff smile. “Charlie?” 

He nodded, so Meyer asked if they could be excused. With his mother’s permission, he collected his plate—and Charlie’s—and placed them both into the dishwasher. Charlie followed on his heels as they retreated back into Meyer’s room. 

A moment later, Charlie flopped facedown on Meyer’s bed, with his arms and legs spread out so that he covered its entirety. Without looking up, he pointed to the stack of CDs on Meyer’s nightstand—eight of them, with track listings written out in messy Sharpie scrawl. They were his Hanukkah presents from Charlie, and he received one a night, always hand-delivered. “You listen to them yet?” he asked, voice muffled by the pillow pressed against his face. 

“The first five,” he answered. Meyer thumbed through the stack, smiling at Charlie’s familiar, sloppy writing. “It’s an eclectic collection.” 

“You like ‘em?” Charlie raised his head a little, enough glance at Meyer with an expectant—and noticeably nervous—expression. Meyer wasn’t certain that Charlie could ever convince him to like Ke$ha, no matter how many of her songs she included on his mixes, but some of the other artists were good. In any case, Charlie’s expression was enough to make Meyer emphatic as he praised Charlie’s work in curating a collection of music. 

With a blushing smile, Charlie lowered his head back to the pillow, confessing that he had spent a lot of time trying to get the tracks into an order that he liked. “They gotta flow right, you know? Otherwise what’s the fuckin’ point in makin’ you a mix?” Charlie explained; Meyer smiled. 

He set the CDs back onto his nightstand and prodded Charlie with the tip of his finger. “There’s nowhere for me to sit.”  There was his desk chair, of course, but that was infinitely less comfortable. He wasn’t going to let Charlie monopolize his entire bed and make Meyer sit in some stiff-backed chair. “Slide over.” 

Charlie laughed and shook his head against the mattress. Meyer raised an eyebrow in disbelief; so that’s how it was going to be, huh? He shoved Charlie, who laughed and shook his head, clamping fistfuls of bedspread in his refusal to be dislodged. With a sigh, Meyer knew he had no other choice. He climbed atop Charlie, who grunted in surprise at the sudden weight. But Meyer maneuvered onto his back, placing his head between Charlie’s shoulder blades. Their feet met at the end as their legs tangled. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but Meyer considered himself successful. At least Charlie wasn’t the only one being obnoxious. 

Meyer could feel the ripple of laughter—low and grumbly and wholly Charlie—and it echoed in his head. “You’re gonna squish me, Mey,” he chuckled. 

Obstinate, Meyer wriggled and pressed his weight down onto Charlie. “Good, you deserve to be squished,” he said, his thin lips pulled into a tight, fond smile. 

Without warning, Charlie bucked and Meyer squawked in surprise, clinging to Charlie’s waist with a firm grasp. He kept thrashing, trying to dislodge Meyer, but it didn’t work. Eventually, he flatted once more against the bed, defeated. “Mean,” he grumbled. 

Meyer shrugged, still comfortably nestled in the contours of Charlie’s back, a victor’s smirk on his face. “My name is Meyer Lansky. You stole my bed. Prepare to be squished.” 

They both laughed themselves into a comfortable silence and Meyer sighed, folding his hands over his stomach. The rise and fall of Charlie’s breathing made his perch particularly soothing. He closed his eyes, comfortable against his warmth, relaxed until—There was a soft noise beneath him. Meyer’s brow furrowed; his nose wrinkled. 

“Did you just fart on me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Asshole.” 

* * *

"Well, at least it's something of a white Christmas, isn't it?" Gillian glanced over Jimmy's shoulder, peering past the lace of the dinning room curtains, where a light dusting of snow had fallen on the grass outside. Jimmy craned his neck to follow her gaze. It wasn't much; the blades of grass were visible in thick, bristly clumps. 

"Yeah. Better than nothing, right?" That was usually Jimmy's motto. Everybody liked a white Christmas, although Jimmy suspected it meant more to his mother than it did to him. She cared about getting everything to look right, as evidenced by the wreath in the center of the table, encasing three thick green candles all hung with holly, ivy, and baubles. 

The rest of the house had been done up with the same level of precision, care, and elegance, even though Jimmy and Gillian were the only ones who'd see it. Well, and her current boyfriend, who was over for a Christmas Eve drink last night. But Jimmy didn't count him; he wasn't sure his mother did, either, if he were honest with himself about the situation. 

"I don't know about you, dear, but I'm completely full," his mother said with a soft smile, leaning back in her chair, and placing her hands over her stomach with a touch of the dramatic.  

He smiled. "Yeah, I'm gettin' pretty stuffed myself." 

They'd be eating leftovers until New Year's with all the food she prepared for the day. They had a supermarket rotisserie chicken—anything else was too big for just two—which was mostly picked through, except for some of the dark meat. Plus, they had mashed potatoes, stuffing, glazed carrots, and canned cranberry sauce. Gillian used to make it from scratch, but Jimmy preferred the canned stuff—as a kid, especially, he loved the way the grooved edges felt on his tongue. She'd also baked a pumpkin pie with Jimmy's help, but it was their tradition to have dessert in the afternoon, after their stomachs had time to recover from their big meal at noon. 

"I'll just get this cleared away—" Gillian rose to her feet and began collecting dishes, but Jimmy hurried and took the stack from her. 

"Let me. You did all this cooking." It was their typical arrangement. Gillian cooked and Jimmy cleaned up, at his own insistence. His mom did enough for him and it wasn't fair to leave everything to her.  

Gillian smiled and adjusted the front of her sweater. "Don't bother washing. Just clear the table. I'll be in the living room tending to a few things." 

Jimmy nodded and continued collecting dishes, carrying them over to the counter or the fridge as needed. He rolled the sleeves on his shirt and rinsed a few of the empty plates, despite his mother's instruction, just so the food wouldn't stick. They didn't go to church or anything on Christmas, and they didn't go see any relatives—not that they had any—but they still got dressed up every year. Nothing too fancy; Jimmy just wore slacks and a button down in a festive-but-not-too-festive shade of deep maroon. 

As he turned off the water and went to join his mother in the living room, she was sitting on the couch, with the tree lit up and casting the whole room in a warm golden glow, despite the pale midday light seeping through the windows.  

"Your phone is flashing," she informed him, passing over his cellphone from the coffee table as he sat beside her. "I suspect your friends have sent you well wishes."  

He agreed that they probably had, and took a moment to check his message. There were three. Richard and Al had respectively replied to his texts with _thanks, you too. wish everyone a happy holiday wish your mother a merry christmas too_ and _hope santa brought you something nice ;) ;) ;) centerfold style_. He laughed and shook his head. He told Richard to wish a Merry Christmas to his family as well, and told Al to keep it in his pants. 

The third text he didn't expect. It was from Pearl and said, _Merry Christmas :) hope you get everything you want._ He hesitated in his response, fingers hovering over the buttons as he tried to put together a suitable message.

"Who's that, dear?"  

He glanced up at his mother, surprised. "Huh? Oh just… friends. Christmas wishes." 

Her expression was knowing, a faint smile at her lips, as she said only, "I see." Jimmy's brow furrowed and he demanded an explanation. He knew that I-know-more-than-you-do look.  

"You're smiling, that's all. I was simply curious,” she explained with a quirk of her head, the expression of omnipotence never leaving her face.  

Jimmy felt the insinuation, but he ignored it. Denial would be a dangerous conversation, as he doubted his mother would believe him. Instead, he returned to crafting a reply to Pearl, and in the end, settled on, "Thanks, you too. Doing anything special?" It wasn’t as clever as he would have liked, but his mind was going blank. 

He put his phone aside—lest his mother come up with any more implications. Besides, he didn't want to be rude and ignore her. It was their holiday, the two of them. Bing Crosby played softly in the background; Gillian had put the CD on while Jimmy cleaned up.

Getting to her feet, Gillian walked over to the tree, stooped, and picked up a large, neatly wrapped rectangle. “This is for you, dear. Merry Christmas,” she said, pecking his cheek as she placed the parcel on his lap. 

Jimmy was terrible at wrapping gifts, but his mother had it down to an art form. There were even little bows. "I almost don't wanna open it. You wrapped it too nice, Ma," he teased. But she just quirked an eyebrow and nodded to him with an expectant look as she resumed her seat beside him.  

Carefully, he tore his finger through the paper, turning the box until it was unwrapped. He lifted the lid of the container. Inside, there was a coat. Jimmy drew it out, let it unfold, and held it arm's length to examine. It was a beautiful peacoat, of dark grayish-blue wool, double-breasted and sleek. Each button bore the image of a little crest. The label read "made in Italy."  

Jimmy stared, turning it over in his hands, fingers roving the warm fabric. "Ma…" 

"Do you like it?" she asked, her eyes intent in a way that betrayed her eagerness more than her words.  

"Yeah, it's beautiful, but… Jesus, Ma, how'd you afford this? I don't—I don't need a fancy coat, I—" Jimmy ran his thumb along the lapel—stiff and strong. Gorgeous though it was, the price he imagined made him guilty without even taking the tags off.  

"You let me worry about that. Won't you try it on?" his mother urged.  

Still a little shocked, Jimmy stood, setting the box aside. He pulled the coat around his shoulders and buttoned himself up. His mother fawned over how smart he looked; Jimmy caught his reflection in the hall mirror and had to agree. It fit as though it had been made just for him. He felt old, mature, sophisticated… "Thank you. I still don't know how you—" 

Gillian smiled. "Now dear, I have my ways. I only want what's best for you."  

Her expression told him not to ask any more questions. That was her business, after all. But he knew, from experience more than anything, that the source of the coat had probably been his mother's new boyfriend, Roy. Either she was lifting bills from his wallet or had talked him into buying the coat for Jimmy. It wouldn’t be the first time, on either count. If she was lifting money off him, that usually meant the relationship was on the way out. It's how things usually went. Jimmy couldn't say he felt especially bad about it; there was something skeevy about that guy. 

But like his mother said, she had her ways and he didn’t need to ask. When she made up her mind, there was no changing it. 

"You've got to look sharp at Princeton, after all," Gillian noted in a soft voice. Jimmy removed the coat and draped it gently across the back of the couch. 

He wouldn't argue about its origin, but its purpose left a weight in his stomach. "What if I don't get in?" he asked, and added in a teasing voice to mask the worry in the first question, "What if I end up at the University of Florida or somethin'?" 

His mother gasped in mock offense. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you? Go so far away from home?" 

"No, of course not, Ma," he answered. All of his applications were to local schools. He didn’t want to stray _too_ far, even though he wanted the best education. "Count yourself lucky, though. Richard's looking at some school in Wisconsin. I think he really likes it." 

Jimmy got to his feet to retrieve a present for his mother from beneath the tree, while she noted, "Your friend Richard is a strange boy. Who would want to go to Wisconsin?" 

"Well, I think his grandparents are out there or something," Jimmy explained as he handed his mother a poorly wrapped bulge. It was lumpy and strangely shaped, not like her nice, neat box. In retrospect, he probably should have put it in a box first… It would have been much easier to wrap that way. He told her to be careful; it was fragile after all.  

"All the same, it's a moot point. I've no doubt you'll get into Princeton," Gillian assured him. Although Jimmy still had his doubts, he was never in a mood to discuss his post-high school plans and all the inherent uncertainty— _especially_ not on Christmas Day. 

Jimmy resumed his seat beside her on the couch as she delicately lifted the paper. Beneath was the statue he made in art class. Gillian held it up to the light, turning it from side to side, examining it from every angle. "Jimmy?"  

"I made that," he explained, hurriedly. "In art class. I thought you could put in on the table or something. I don't know."  

Her smile widened as she put the statue on the coffee table, leaning back to admire it. With Pearl’s help, it really had turned out looking like a person and not a strange blob of post-modernism. It _almost_ resembled some kind of Greek god or something, if Jimmy squinted and tilted his head to the left and imagined it looking more like the vision in his head. 

But Gillian seemed much more impressed. "It's beautiful. You've got so many wonderful talents, Jimmy."  

He laughed and tried to say he wasn't so sure, but Gillian pulled him into a hug, which silenced him. “Glad you like it,” he said as he returned the embrace. 

“Of course I do, dear.” As she released him and sat back, Gillian fixed him with an earnest look he knew well, her fingers cupping beneath his chin. “Are you having a good Christmas?” 

That was a look he saw on most holidays, an apology that it was only just the two of them, a worry that she wasn’t enough and that their humble celebrations weren’t picture-perfect or special. And maybe his friends drove off to their relative’s houses. Maybe they all had moms and dads, brothers or sisters, and hoards of screaming cousins, and grandparents to dote on them, while Jimmy had his mother and the occasional temporary mother’s-boyfriend who might dote on him. But he didn’t mind. He didn’t see the big deal in having loads of people you were related to and saw once or twice a year, and how that was supposed to be more special or any kind of perfect. They had each other, like they’d always had, and that was enough. 

“Of course I am, Ma. Best Christmas ever,” he assured her, and she beamed. 

* * *

“What time is it?” Charlie asked for the umpteenth time. 

Meyer looked at his phone, the screen illuminating his face with a dim shade of blue. His breath puffed in the electronic light. “Only 11:30. We’ve still got time.” 

“Okay. Just don’t wanna miss it,” Charlie explained, again, as he did every time he asked Meyer for the time. His hands were too cold to reach into his own pocket and pull out his phone. Meyer was smart enough to wear gloves. 

The three of them stood in the shadowed alcove beneath an interstate exit ramp, drinking beer that Benny had obtained… well, however Benny obtained things. Charlie and Meyer both preferred not to ask, because it didn’t matter. 

They were relegated to loitering outside when Meyer’s place meant No Alcohol, Benny’s place meant Too Much Alcohol as his dad welcomed in the New Year in a drunken stupor, and Charlie’s place meant Maybe Alcohol but also no room to breathe with all the people crammed in there for the party his parents were throwing. 

So they sat outside, the three of them crouched against the concrete wall, their lips brushing the cold neck of the bottle as their breath hovered in the air, mingled with the smoke from the pack of cigarettes Charlie had tossed to each of them. He used to rob 7/11 for cigarettes, but since his 18th birthday last month, he occasionally bought them. But only occasionally, when the store was too empty for him to sneak a pack unnoticed. "What time—" 

"Will you stop fuckin' askin' already? Fuck, Charlie! What, you got a hot date or somethin' in the new year? You finally gonna get your dick up?" Benny snapped. "It's been two fuckin' minutes, alright!"  

"Can't I fuckin' ask?" Charlie shot back. 

"Maybe not every goddamn minute, alright?" Benny chugged the remainder of his beer while Charlie scowled. He swallowed, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and tossed the empty bottle into the street. Benny cheered as glass shattered and sprayed across the asphalt. "Pass me another, will ya?" 

Charlie glared as he rooted through the large paper bag beside him and drew out another bottle for Benny. But he made no move to pass it over. He wasn’t just gonna do what Benny asked, after he gave him shit like that. Charlie didn’t take that kind of thing lying down, and definitely not from Benny. “How's about I shove this up your ass instead, huh?" he growled.  

"Whoa, Charlie!” Benny laughed, holding up his hands. “That got really gay, really fast. Didn’t realize you was—" 

“Benny!” Meyer snapped. He quieted immediately. Charlie unclenched his fist from around the neck of the bottle. "Charlie, give it to me," Meyer ordered in a low voice. He handed it over, and Meyer cracked it open and passed it to Benny, who took a shamefaced sip.  

They sat in silence, apart from the steady clinking as Benny tapped the bottle cap against the ground. Cars rushed by overhead, and occasionally, some lunatic yelled out the window as they sped past. Charlie drank and wondered what time it was, but he didn't ask.  

"You're both children," Meyer said at last with a sigh. "Do I have to make you a Get Along shirt?"  

"But we have Get Along Beer," Benny pointed out and flashed Charlie a smile as he took a sip. Charlie downed the rest of the bottle and threw it into the street just as Benny had done, in a silent acceptance of his equally unstated apology. As the glass shattered, Benny whooped and Meyer cringed, muttering "children" around the cigarette balanced between his lips. 

Neither Charlie nor Benny had the chance to defend themselves from Meyer's wry aspersion. A car sped down from the interstate, taking the curve of the exit ramp too quickly. As it whizzed beneath the overpass, there was a sickeningly pop as glass shards embedded in tires. The car spun as it screeched to a halt.  

"Shit," Benny breathed.  

The interior lights went on as the driver opened the door.  

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"  

The three hurried to their feet, abandoning the beer. They scrambled in a mess of limbs, shoving past one another, sprinting along the concrete. The driver hollered at them. 

Charlie didn’t look back, but he heard the heavy footsteps crunching on glass as the driver chased after them. 

Shit, shit, fuck… "Hurry!" He grabbed Meyer by the arm and they sprinted. The cold air stung in his lungs as his legs slammed repeatedly into the road. It was too dark and too unfamiliar, and blind panic clouded his mind. 

Benny veered sharply into a development, charging down the street, and skittered left at the sight of a house with all the windows darkened. Charlie and Meyer followed, scrambling to keep up. 

In one swift motion, Benny launched himself over the fence and fell to the other side with a thud.  "Get your asses over here! They got a sweet hammock!" they heard Benny shout.  

Charlie and Meyer exchanged a quick glance—and another cautious one over their shoulder, still afraid the driver would catch them or call the cops to the scene—and hurried to join him. But the wooden vertical slats of the fence were high and smooth, with no place to put feet or to grab onto. How Benny made it over in an instant, Charlie didn’t understand, but the kid was an animal. He didn’t have time to wonder about it. Getting arrested was not on his agenda for the night, especially since he was eighteen. 

Without asking permission, Charlie seized Meyer around the waist and hoisted him into the air. 

"The fuck are you—!" Meyer didn't finished his sentence, as Charlie heaved him over the fence. He squawked as he hit the grass on the other side. Without pausing to consider how mad Meyer must be, Charlie clamored atop the stranger’s trashcan. The whole thing wobbled under his feet, as he pulled himself over the top of the fence. 

He landed on something squishy and the thing grunted.  

"Charlie, that's my larynx," Meyer's strangled voice muttered.  

"Oh, sorry." He shifted his weight until Meyer breathed a sigh of relief. But still the two of them lay in the grass, panting, with Meyer on his back and Charlie half on top of him. Across the yard, Benny stretched out on their hammock. It creaked as he swung back and forth. 

"Well, that was something," Meyer muttered with a shaky laugh, trying to catch his breath. 

“I’ll fuckin’ say.” With an impish grin, Charlie leaned close and asked, so Benny couldn't hear, "What time is it now?" 

Meyer laughed, throwing his head back against the grass. He dug his phone from his pocket, and Charlie stared as the dim light illuminated his face and the lingering smile that brightened his eyes. His cheeks were bright pink with the exertion and the cold, his hair rumpled and askew. Charlie stared and didn't hear what time Meyer said.  

And he didn't look away, until Benny shouted from across the lawn, "Hey, what's your New Year's resolution?"  

Startled by the sudden reminder of Benny's existence, of the existence of anything beyond that patch of grass in the dark of a stranger's backyard, Charlie sat up and scooted away, propping himself up against the fence. He leaned his head back against it; he felt suddenly dizzy. 

Meyer propped himself up on his elbows and answered, "To get fives on all my AP tests. Yours?"  

"At least three more suspensions before the end of the year," Benny called back with a laugh. He kicked the trunk of the tree on every swing, chipping away little pieces of bark. 

"Well that shouldn't be too difficult," Meyer teased, before turning to Charlie. "What about you?" 

"Uh…" His mind went blank as he stared at Meyer. In the house next door, people shouted and cheered. He could see them silhouetted in the windows, hugging one another and raising drinks and blowing noise makers into the cold January air.  

“Happy New Year!” he shouted in a rush, glad for the diversion. He couldn’t think of a single resolution, besides how much he wanted to grab Meyer and kiss him. 

* * *

 “I know, I heard you the first time,” Arnold complained as he extricated himself from beneath a blanket. The microwave in the kitchen beeped incessantly, as though afraid he would forget about its obnoxious existence. As if he could, with that noise… He wrenched open the plastic door and retrieved his mug, thankful to stop the shrill bleating. 

It was cold in the house, even with the heat cranked high. He was also trying to normalize his sleeping schedule before work started again in a few days. So he bought a box of Sleepy Time Tea from the supermarket to try. He tore open the package, dunked in the teabag, and carried it into the living room to let it steep. 

Although still early in the evening, it was probably best to prepare for sleep as soon as possible, as Arnold anticipated it would be a long while before he actually _could_ close his eyes with any results. He had been keeping exceptionally late hours during winter break, simply because he could. He hated the early hours of high school and preferred to sleep through the entirety of the morning. With no work and an empty house, why shouldn’t he? 

Settling back onto the couch, Arnold stared at the mug of tea and watched the leaves slowly tint the water into caramel brown. He _should_ turn on the TV and watch a few mindless programs, to soothe himself and relax, so that he could go to bed at a human time and not when the birds were starting to chirp. He did have a DVR full of Ace of Cakes, but he didn't much feel like watching TV. He could feel the restlessness for some engaging pursuit itching at the corners of his mind. He'd won a bit earlier in the day playing online poker. It would never help him sleep, but he could always win some more… He was much better player in person—years of education in psychology helped that—but he'd take the distractions where he could get them.  

However, the sudden knock on the door was not the distraction he had in mind. Frowning, Arnold rose to his feet, switching on the light in the foyer and pressing his eye tentatively against the peep hole. It wasn't often that people knocked, especially in the evening. 

His stomach turned over. He was quick to open the door, a smile already on his face. The breathless greeting of "Carolyn" fell quickly from his lips.

She gave a tight smile and did not meet his eye. The flicker of hope died quickly. Arnold pulled back his shoulders, his face falling into an expression of controlled passivity. But his eyes did not leave her face, as he continued to search for some understanding. Reading her did not come as easily as it did with others.   

"Can I… help you with anything?" It seemed unusual, that she should show up unannounced, when most of their conversation was through their lawyers those days. 

"The furniture,” she reminded. “Only if it’s convenient. I’d hate to disturb you.” There was a note of bitterness to her tone that Arnold understood plainly. The jibe was clear enough, that she had felt like an intrusion to his reclusive behavior. _Difficulty opening up,_ wasn’t that what they said in couples counseling? Those sessions had worked so well for them, hadn’t they? Arnold found it difficult to have much faith in his own profession, when it had done nothing to salvage his crumbling marriage. All it did was give them a new vocabulary to understand what the cracks were called and to name the pieces as they fell. 

“Of course. Take what you need,” he answered in a soft voice. He stepped aside to let her through the door, taking great care to move out of her way. He kept his eyes downcast as she passed him and strode into the dining room. 

It was only furniture and they'd agreed on how to divide their belongings, during a terse conversation in Bill’s office last month. There was just something particularly harsh in the reality of it happening, of watching their house empty of more than just her presence. Though perhaps the emptiness was nothing new. 

“Would you like any help?” Arnold called, tentatively following after. He didn’t want to linger if he was unwanted, but it did seem rude not to offer assistance. 

Carolyn glanced up at him, a momentary smile on her face. She picked up one of the dining room chairs as she spoke. “That hardly seems fair, Arnold.” There was the trace of a laugh—a wisp, like a curl he might have once brushed from her face. It wasn’t carefree or bright, the way he knew Carolyn’s laughter. But it was something. “I can’t ask you to help me move out of our— _your_ home.” 

Her smile faded as she caught her mistake. Without waiting for his response, she slipped past him, chair in hand. Arnold should have left it at that, returned to his tea or gone upstairs out of her way, but he dawdled in the dining room until she returned. 

“I don’t mind, you know,” he said, smile strained. “Though if you’re uncomfortable with my assistance, perhaps I could just help with the heavier pieces of furniture.” There were some things—the hoosier in the kitchen, for instance—that simply could not be lifted by one person. It was an impossibility and she would require his help. 

Carolyn nodded, in understanding more than agreement, as she hoisted two more chairs into her hands. “I don’t have room in my trunk right now. I was thinking I could come back over the weekend, maybe rent a van for an hour or two?” 

Arnold agreed that it was a sensible idea. Besides, he was free over the weekend, so there would be no inconvenience. “Well, in any case, my offer stands,” he informed her, keeping a polite distance as she worked. 

With a sigh, Carolyn shifted the chairs in her arms. She looked on the verge of placing them down again, which meant she had something to say, which made Arnold nervous on principle. He watched her with anxious eyes, momentarily longing for the safety of his tea cup, to hide behind some comforting motion and pretend to maintain his composure. “I really appreciate your offer, truly, I do…” 

“But?” he anticipated. 

“But I just don’t think it’s necessary,” she blurted with strained finality. Carolyn turned away and headed back towards her car. She accidentally clunked the edge of one chair into the doorframe. Arnold stepped forward out of instinct, but held back offering any help. She maneuvered around the obstacle without his aid, though still Arnold trailed after her. 

Normally, he wouldn’t press the matter further. But in the present situation, he simply didn’t understand. She had her limitations, after all, didn’t she? He held open the front door as she hobbled through it and down onto the front stoop. “But the heavy furniture, Carolyn… You can’t manage on your own.” 

“I can, as a matter of fact,” she snapped, both chairs thudding onto the concrete as she rounded on him. He expected another argument, right there on the threshold, though neither of them were that sort of person. They had no heated shouting matches, no scenes of rage or dramatic displays. But the cold comments and the silences that passed between them during the end of their marriage were perhaps worse, as they sealed up inside them both and froze over. 

Carolyn closed her eyes, exhaling a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was firm, but clear with a determination to maintain a level tone. “You really are being generous, but I don’t think it’s appropriate if we continue… acting this way, towards one another. I’ll have Robert help me and we’ll be out of your hair in a matter of—” 

“Robert? Who’s Robert?” Arnold asked, eyes narrowed, a note of freneticism creeping into his otherwise controlled tone. 

“You didn’t listen to a _word_ I just said, did you?” Carolyn asked through grit teeth. 

Arnold continued to press for information on the mysterious Robert. In the back of his mind, he recognized that he was proving her point, but he couldn’t think about that when faced with some man who was apparently willing to move furniture for her. 

“He’s no one, Arnold,” she explained. “He’s just a friend from work, that’s all. He’s a representative from our marketing partners in Europe. We met on one of my business trips a few months back, but now he’s working stateside, and…” 

She smiled for a moment and Arnold had all the information he needed. 

“Right. Of course,” he murmured. “Well, I may be busy this weekend, so feel free to let yourself in. I’ll stay out of your way.” 

Their eyes met. Arnold almost couldn’t bear it, staring at one another across their furniture on the small stoop, with all the distance in the world pressed between them. For a moment, Carolyn offered a hesitant smile. 

“Goodnight, Arnold,” she said, softly, as she hoisted the chairs beneath her arms and strode off to the car. Arnold raised a hand once her back was turned and whispered a faint goodnight. He lingered as she loaded the trunk and drove off; only then did he return inside and lock the door. 

Alone once more in the living room, Arnold noticed his mug on the coffee table. He strode towards it and downed a large gulp, grimacing as soon as he did. The tea was bitter from over-steeping and it was ice cold. 

* * *

 Charlie rolled over onto his side. He was supposed to be asleep, but after two hours, his mind had not stopped racing. He could feel the minutes passing, getting closer to 5:25 when his alarm would ring and he'd get up for the first day of school after winter break. And every minute that slipped away while he was still wide-awake only mounted the stress to squeeze his eyes shut and go the fuck to sleep already.  

He rolled over again. Shifting from his left side to his right did nothing to solve his problems or clear up his worldview. Maybe if he flopped onto his back… 

It had been a few days since New Year's, since Charlie last saw Meyer, since everything changed. New year, new everything, apparently. It had been days and still, Charlie couldn't stop thinking about that moment when all he wanted in all the world was to feel Meyer’s lips pressed up against his own.  

Actually, that wasn't all he could think about. Charlie thought about a lot of things in that handful of days: Why did he want to kiss Meyer? Had he always wanted to kiss Meyer? Did Meyer want to kiss him too? What happened if he did? What happened if he didn't? Should Charlie try? Was he gay? What about all those girlfriends, had he ever even liked them? What if Meyer didn't like him that way? What _was_ that way, anyway? What if this was just a weird fleeting thing and Charlie did something stupid that he would regret for the rest of his life? What if he ruined the best friendship he had? Maybe he'd just been too drunk. Maybe it'd just been too long since he'd had anybody. Maybe it had just been too long since he jacked off, considering his brother was almost _never_ out of their shared bedroom.  

That gave him an idea. It wasn't an idea he particularly liked—which was odd, because normally he liked ideas that involved his hand on his penis—but he'd try anyway. As quietly as he could, Charlie slipped out from beneath the covers. He dropped his phone into the pocket of his pajama pants, along with his earbuds, as he tread softly to the door. It creaked and he glanced over at Bart—sound asleep, as usual.  

Charlie hurried to the bathroom. The light blinded him as he flicked it on. He squinted at the white tiles in agony, locked the door behind him, and lowered the toilet seat to sit down. 

His heart pounded in his chest, like he was on the verge of the most important discovery in all of human history. Maybe he was. 

He opened Google from his phone. He typed “gay porn.” He searched. 

Yep. Those were a lot of dicks. Somehow, the universe didn't seem any more clear. He frowned as he thumbed down the list of videos. There was “Leo & Justin Kitchen Fuck,” who seemed to be a particularly flexible couple, judging by the thumbnail. There was also "Eager Twinks in Locker Room," whatever the fuck _twink_ meant. There was a cute blonde boy bent over a table, another video with about five guys in various positions, and somebody with his ankles shackled to the wall, which Charlie decided wasn’t the best starting place. Eventually, he selected a video boasting a "Hot Gay BJ," which seemed safe and somewhat familiar. 

He played the video through his headphones. Immediately, there was a lot of moaning, as the one boy worked his mouth over the other. Charlie squinted down at the tiny screen, still in partial disbelief at what he was actually _doing._ Sure, maybe back in middle school, when he first learned about the wonders of the internet, Charlie watched men as much as women… But that was only because he _had_ a penis, so it wasn’t as weird to watch. At age twelve, foreign anatomy had still been too scary to watch. But everybody went through that process, right? It didn’t necessarily _mean_ anything, he’d thought. 

At eighteen, though, it was a different story. He was watching with _intent,_ with a purpose to learn something, even though he’d already been with girls and the sex was great. But the men onscreen were great, too. 

The moans in his earbuds grew louder and more insistent, as the attractive man on his knees continued to bob back and forth. Charlie swallowed, breath hitched in his throat. Slowly, tentatively, he slipped one hand beneath the waistband of his pants. He whimpered as he palmed against himself, trying to match the pace of the man onscreen as his tongue took its time teasing the other. He was mesmerized by the motions, his initial reservations forgotten with the stiffening between his legs… 

The video froze; a circle started spinning right over the man’s face. “Come on!” Charlie smacked his phone against his leg. It played for another three seconds, and then stopped again. He groaned and slumped down against the back of the toilet, glaring. It was too late to pause for buffering. He couldn’t be patient. 

In a hurry, Charlie wrenched the earbuds out and threw his phone aside. It clattered against the tile floor, but he didn’t care. Eyes closed, he leaned his head against the wall, sliding his hand back and forth with a firm grip. He pictured the few minutes from the video, replaying them in his head, thoughts of Meyer mingling with the memory. 

Charlie knew what blowjobs felt like. He thought again of Meyer’s lips, of what they would feel like wrapped around him. He sped up, fighting back a moan. Through the haze of fatigue and lust, Charlie’s focus slipped. The image in his head shifted and suddenly, he was imagining himself kneeling to the ground, kissing the insides of Meyer’s thighs, taking him in his mouth… His hand worked with practiced vigor, while behind his eyelids, an entire scene played out. He was panting, bucking into his hand, one leg thrown carelessly up on the edge of the sink. Charlie moaned, forgetting about everything but the fantasy in his head and the sensations. He was so _close_ and— 

Somebody started pounding on the door. Charlie yelped and scrambled to his feet. 

“I need to pee, _you fucking slut,_ ” his sister whispered angrily from the other side of the door. “I could hear you _through the wall,_ jeez!” 

Charlie clamored for his phone, yanking his pants up and shielding the embarrassing bulge with his hands as he opened the door. He must have been completely red in the face; he felt like he might legitimately burst into flames. 

His sister brushed past him and shut the bathroom door, sighing in indignation, while Charlie retreated back to his bedroom. He didn’t even realize he’d been moaning. Despite the mortification, he still couldn’t forget about the scene in his head. It was too good to end with nothing. 

Charlie crawled back into bed, closed his eyes, and finished quietly. A satisfied fatigue spread throughout his breathless body, as he adjusted the blankets and rolled onto his side. 

He still didn’t have the answer to all his questions, but he knew that he liked the fantasy. And Charlie knew, as he drifted off to sleep, that he wanted nothing more than Meyer curled beside him. 


	4. January

The sky was still dark as Margaret closed each lunchbox. Behind her, the children finished up their cereal in silence, still half-asleep with the early hour. Margaret had her own thermos full of tea beside her. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes—careful not to muss the light layer of eye makeup—before putting the lunch boxes into their backpacks. She knew Teddy would forget otherwise. Margaret was certain that he often "forgot" on purpose so he could buy a lunch at school like his friends. Considering she worked in a school and had _seen_ the kinds of foods they served to children, Margaret couldn't understand why Teddy would want that instead. But, in elementary school, Margaret supposed the idea of school lunches was still new enough to be exciting. And if Teddy's friends were doing it, that would be enough to convince him to "forget" his homemade ham and cheese in favor of a questionable hamburger that spent its steam-cooked life on a big metal tray.  

She worried about him sometimes. Peer pressure and all that. She tried to give them both a good upbringing, despite circumstances. Teddy had been very young when she divorced Hans; it was hard to say wether he remembered him much. If anything, the loss of Owen would have been much harder to bear. The two were close. She knew Teddy had looked up to him. She wouldn’t have worried as much, if she knew Teddy had Owen’s influence to follow. 

"Momma, I'm all finished," Emily said from Margaret's side. She glanced down, to see her daughter offering up an empty bowl of cereal with one hand, leaning on her crutch with the other. She wasn't yet tall enough to reach the sink, but she always wanted to clear her own dishes.  

"Thank you, Cushla," Margaret said as she took the bowl and ran water over it. "Teddy, have you nearly finished? We'll need to leave shortly."  

There was no response. Margaret glanced over her shoulder. Teddy's chair was empty. She sighed and called out, "Teddy, would you please put your dish in the sink?" 

Then she heard the telltale _clomp, clomp, clomp_ of Teddy coming downstairs. She often reminded him not to stomp around as though he were an elephant—otherwise she's have to sell him to the zoo, wouldn't she?—but he seldom heeded that advice. If she was already enforcing the dishes-in-the-sink, that was enough for one morning. The elephant conversation would not be well-received at such an hour anyway. But he did put his bowl in the sink and filled it with water, as Margaret had taught him. She smiled and thanked him, handing each child their backpack. The straps of Teddy's were covered in marker drawingsand the faces of the Fantastic Four were colored in as well. Teddy had even added a detailed mustache to the Human Torch. Emily's backpack had no such graffiti—only vivid cartoon ponies. Once everyone was suited up in their coats and hats, with their backpacks on their shoulders, the three of them headed out the door. Margaret carried her thermos in one hand, a bag full of lesson plans and well-worn novels crammed into her bag over the opposite shoulder.  

They walked down the street together, Teddy running along ahead, as his energy high thrived despite the hour. He hurried up the Harrows' front porch and pounded on the front door.  

By the time Margaret and Emily caught up, Teddy was standing in the foyer ripping off his coat. Richard held the door open for them, as Teddy threw his coat to the floor.  

"Teddy…" Margaret reprimanded.  

"It's alright. I can. Take care of it." Richard stooped to pick up Tedy's coat and hung it on the rack. He was far too lenient with Teddy's antics, who knew enough to hang up his own coat. But Teddy took a particularly firm hand to coax proper behavior from him, and Richard was a gentle soul.  

"Are you ready?" Margaret asked, as she helped Emily out of her coat. Richard nodded, but added, "Still waiting for. Emma."  

It was an arrangement that had served them well over the years. Margaret appreciated having neighbors she could rely on. With the elementary schools starting so much later than the high school, Margaret was in a bind when it came to getting her kids to school. They weren't old enough to get themselves ready and to the bus on time. So, Margaret would bring them to the Harrows in the morning. Mrs. Harrow would watch the children and see them to the bus. In exchange, Margaret would drive Richard and Emma to school, so they could avoid the unpleasntries of the bus. 

Margaret and Richard waited in silence, while Teddy and Emily hurried off into the other room, to play before their bus arrived. Emma did not take too much longer. Margaret smiled as the three of them walked back down the street, towards Margaret's car. The sidewalks were covered in a grey slush, mixed with the salt as the last snow melted away. Margaret always felt that winter ought to leave after the holidays. It somehow seemed less bearable without the festive cheer in the air. January was much too gray, especially with the early mornings and the darkness. The sky was beginning to lighten a little, though it still felt far too early for anyone to be awake—even for Margaret, who normally rose with the sun.  

"Did you both have a good winter break?" Margaret asked as she climbed into the driver's seat. The kids sat in the back, their heavy, full backpacks squeezed together on the middle seat. Richard nodded and Emma agreed, "It was good."  

"A bit short, I'd imagine?" teased Margaret, who was herself feeling the pangs of going back to work after a pleasant, but far too short, break. The twins nodded emphatically and Margaret, with an air of apology, said, "I hope _The Awakening_ didn't take up too much of your time. I thought a shorter book would be best for break, so you could enjoy yourselves."  

Both of the Harrows were exemplary students in Margaret’s English class. It was rather strange, finally having them in the classroom, after being neighbors for so many years.  

"Not a happy book, though," Emma pointed out. True, it was short and a bit grim. Richard, to his credit, chimed in that he enjoyed it. "It was very. Poetic."  

"It could have been worse, you know," Margaret chided. "I could have assigned _Crime and Punishment_." But she was not that cruel, to assign such a truly abysmal and lengthy novel during her students' breaks. Margaret did have _some_ respect for their time, after all. "I hope reading Kate Chopin didn't entirely ruin Christmas?" 

"Nah, it wasn't so bad. Read it on the drive to our grandparents' house," Emma explained. Margaret frowned and glanced at them in the rearview mirror. "Don't tell me you drove all the way to Wisconsin?" 

"Yes. All the way," Richard confirmed, stiffly. He was staring intently out the window, turning his head every now and then to chime in to the conversation. "I read it. Later. " 

"He gets sick if he reads in the car," Emma said and Richard frowned. Evidently, it was a great source of annoyance. Margaret could understand the inconvenience, especially if they took such long drives.  

Emma and Richard took turns telling Margaret bits and pieces about their Christmas, about their breaks, and about upcoming events at school. With the field hockey season over, Emma said she would have much more time on her hands—at least, until track started up in the spring. They were both waiting to hear back form an array of schools. Emma was interested in pursuing environmental science, whereas Richard wanted a good school with a lot of choices, as he was planning on starting undeclared. 

"What about New Year's?" Margaret asked, as they tuned into the school driveway. The line of cars and buses coming into the school was long, and they waited at a dead stop.  

"I was at the. Darmodys' house," Richard answered. "Jimmy. Had a party." 

Margaret smiled and said that sounded nice. She knew Mrs. Darmody in passing, simply for her affiliation to the school board. But from what she'd seen, Mrs. Darmody cared immensely for the good of the students and Margaret respected that. It was nice to see someone with their priorities on education, instead of on saving money. It was, at any rate, a nice contrast to the district's superintendent, Mr. Thompson. Emma was smirking at her brother. "Yeah, Richard had a great New Year's," she said aloud, and then stage whispered, "How's Odette?" 

Her brother blushed and turned his head a near 90 degrees to look out the window. Emma and Margaret both giggled. "Will there be a prom invitation in the near future?" Margaret asked. She wasn't a gossipy teacher, but sometimes the latest Student News could be amusing. Besides, the twins felt less like students, as she’d known them both since they were small. 

Richard didn't answer. Instead, he said, "Emma had. A good New Year's too."  

"That’s not fair." It was Emma's turn to blush. "I just hung out with Maybelle, that's it. It's nothing like _your_ New Year's—" But Emma was turning steadily redder as Richard stared at her with what could only be smug triumph—in his understated way.  

The line of cars started to move, as Margaret made a noise of delight. Maybelle was another of her best English students. "So _will_ there be a prom invitation soon?" she asked again, this time to Emma.  

She shrugged and playfully jabbed her brother in the shoulder—no doubt a punishment for shirking the spotlight and foisting it onto her. Emma pressed her face against the cool glass of the backseat window. "Maybe. I don't know. It's only January."  

Margaret knew that elaborate prom proposals could start far earlier, though most students began to worry about finding a date within the next month or so. She wouldn't press either Harrow for information, given both of their embarrassment in talking about themselves. But she'd keep an ear open to any gossip she heard, to see if either of them were successful with their various dates.  

"Are we there yet?" Emma complained as the line of traffic against slowed to a halt, a few yards from the front of the school.   

Richard just shook his head and murmured, "No."

* * *

 Charlie sat with his chair pulled up against the front of AR’s desk, his elbows leaning against the surface. He’d grown more comfortable during their guidance sessions, once he decided that AR wasn’t some asshole disciplinarian like Van Alden, or some stuffy intellectual who’d pry into Charlie’s head and ask all sorts of awkward questions about his parents and shit. Besides, how bad could the guy be, if Meyer and him seemed to be on okay terms? Charlie even picked up Meyer’s nickname for him; he always liked shortening anybody’s name, whenever he could. 

AR had one of those little metal things on his desk, with the clacky balls. Charlie occupied himself fiddling with it, dragging one back and watching as it smacked into the others, sending the whole line swaying back and forth. The little clicking noise distracted him. 

“So did you make bank at the slot machines over break or somethin’?” Charlie asked, his eyes intent on the swinging motion. AR chuckled and said no, explaining that slot machines were not his preference—he made a derisive comment about the lack of _skill_ involved—and that he kept his gambling to a minimum over break. 

“Aw man. And here I was, hopin’ I could hit you up for a couple bucks,” he said, though he wasn’t serious. Charlie didn’t like to ask for shit, not if he could find a way to get it himself. 

“Are you going to tell me anything about your break, or will you be asking the questions this time?” AR asked. Charlie shrugged, a little embarrassed about being called out on his plan. He’d been deliberately asking AR questions about himself from the moment he walked into the room. He knew the smalltalk about break would happen right off the bat—and there were plenty of things Charlie didn’t want to talk about where that was concerned. 

“Nothin’ special,” he remarked, with feigned indifference. Christmases with the Lucianos were always hectic. His extended family was large and loud and they all converged on Uncle Joe’s diner in Staten Island. He was the only member of the family who had any money to speak of. Nobody really knew how he made it, running a diner and all, but nobody really wanted to find out. 

AR was watching him, his expression imploring. “No? Nothing?” Charlie drew back one of the balls and let it drop. He repeated his answer. There was nothing that was worth mentioning or that he wanted to talk about. 

“I hung out with Meyer a bunch,” he said, just to say something. But he could feel a twitch of a smile at the thought. He couldn’t have that conversation with AR, not when he was _certain_ that AR would see it immediately. Charlie was beginning to worry that the entire world could. As he sat next to Meyer on the bus that morning, Charlie kept staring at the bus driver’s forehead in the front mirror, wondering if even _he_ knew. It felt painfully obvious to Charlie; was it obvious to everyone else? 

“Yes, you two are good friends, is that correct?” AR asked. He clearly wanted to make conversation, and Charlie inwardly groaned. They were heading into dangerous territory. 

He nodded. “Since elementary school, yeah.” 

There was something contemplative on AR’s face, which Charlie interpreted immediately as He Must Know, though he tried to keep his expression neutral in response. He wasn’t going to tip his hand. No matter how often the thoughts and questions ran around his head, he couldn’t say it out loud. He could feel it with every movement—like a knot in his shoulder he couldn’t rub out—but it was better to keep to himself, right? Until he was certain? 

“Are your parents friends? Yours and Meyer’s?” 

The question startled Charlie. “No? I mean, my mom’s met his mom, and I guess they get along fine, but I wouldn’t call ‘em friends.” There wasn’t much between them besides a few exchanges and pleasantries, on the occasions when they saw each other. But that was becoming less and less, once Meyer and Charlie were old enough to wander back and forth between each other’s houses without parental supervision. And, truth be told, they’d been doing plenty of that even _before_ they were old enough. 

“I was just wondering how you met, that’s all,” AR explained. “Given the gap in age, I wondered if you met outside of school somehow.” 

“Oh, no, nothin’ like that,” Charlie said with a laugh. He straightened up in his chair, forgetting about the clinking thing on AR’s desk, and smiled. “He actually, well I guess it’s kinda a funny story—” Charlie beamed at the floor, chuckling to himself over the memory of the first time he and Meyer met. 

“Go on,” AR prompted. “Let’s hear it.” 

Charlie hesitated for only a moment. Maybe it was just a dumb little thing, not worth hearing, but… He’d rather talk about Meyer than about anything else AR might bring up. At least Meyer made him smile, no matter what. 

“I was in fifth grade, so—one of the big kids at the school. Y’know, and my friends’n me, we all thought we was real tough shit. Like we didn’t cry or nothin’ if we skinned our knees at recess,” he explained with a laugh. It was ridiculous to think a _fifth grader_ could ever pride himself on toughness or coolness, but Charlie had done just that. 

AR sat with his elbows on his desk, his fingers knit together as he regarded Charlie with a wry smile. “How difficult that is to believe,” he commented. Charlie shot him a glare that he did not mean; they were starting to tease each other like that sometimes. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said as he waved off AR’s input. He was a little shit as a kid; he knew it. “So anyways, it was at recess one day. And there was these younger kids sittin’ around in the grass, doin’ somethin’. And my friends and me, we went over to see what they was up to. Turns out, they’re swappin’ Pokemon cards.” 

Charlie’s recollection of the event was unusually vivid. He remembered the little circle of a few kids in the grass, their heads bent together, shielding themselves away from the world. Somehow, from his little gang’s hangout at the monkey bars, knowing what they were up to was important. 

Charlie remembered asking—loudly—what they were doing as he loomed over them, staring down into their circle. He remembered the kids gathering up their cards protectively, all of them too timid to answer. One boy—of course—did not. 

“The littlest one—and he was fuckin’ _little_ —just looks up at me and says, ‘We’re playin’ Pokemon. What’s it to you?’” It was something like that, Charlie knew. The exact words had faded over the years, but the intent and daring expression on the young boy’s face remained ever since. 

“So I look down at this kid’s cards, all in the grass, and one of them’s _shiny._ It’s glintin’ in the sun and all that, so I pick it up, real fast, before the kid can even move.” 

He could _feel_ the kid’s icy stare watching him, as Charlie turned the card over in his hands. He rubbed his fingers over the rounded corners, tilting the card back and forth to watch the light glimmer. The picture was an immense, fire-breathing dragon, with the name “Charizard” printed in the corner. 

“I told him, I was gonna keep it,” Charlie confessed, with a twang of guilt. Cute though the story was, he still felt bad for doing a shitty thing like that to Meyer. 

“Were you interested in Pokemon as a child?” AR asked. Charlie snorted and shook his head. 

“No fuckin’ way. I didn’t get what you was supposed to do with them. You collect ‘em and then what? Just stare at ‘em all day? How the fuck’s that fun?” Besides, there’s no way Charlie’s parents would have spent the money buying him Pokemon cards. He could have stolen packs if he’d wanted them—and he would have, too—but it was too stationary an activity to hold Charlie’s interest. 

In answer to the questioning look on AR’s face, Charlie added, “Look, the kid had a _shiny, fire-breathin’ dragon_. Of course I fuckin’ wanted it.” To that day, Charizard was the only Pokemon Charlie could name. He was also still just as adamant that it was the only Pokemon worth knowing about. 

“So what happened after you took the card?” AR asked with an indulgent smile. “This doesn’t sound much like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” 

“I went to put it in my pocket. And before I knew what was happenin’, he pounced on me,” Charlie said with more fondness than the scenario probably warranted. 

AR looked surprised. “ _Meyer_ did?”

Charlie nodded, pride buoyant in his chest. He explained how Meyer knocked him to the ground, how they wrestled back and forth. Charlie’s friends formed an eager circle around them, cheering them on with jeers and whoops of excitement, while Meyer’s circle dispersed during the distraction, eager to keep their own Pokemon cards safe. Because nobody else had the balls to fight for them the way Meyer did. 

Finally, the recess monitor came over and yanked the two boys apart, demanding to know what was going on. They were both disheveled, the Charizard card lying momentarily forgotten in the dirt. Charlie had dropped it when Meyer attacked. He scrambled to grab it before the recess monitor could punish them, but Meyer was faster. He grabbed the card, shoved it in his pocket, and glared at Charlie as though he’d never hated anyone more. 

“We got sent over to the wall,” he continued to explain. When AR looked at him without comprehension, Charlie tacked on, “That’s what happened when you got in trouble durin’ recess. You hadda go stand against the wall for the whole time and nobody was allowed to talk to you or nothin’.” 

Charlie had been made to stand against the wall many times. Meyer, however, was seething about his first time in trouble as the two trudged over to the wall of the school. They stood in silence, their backs against the brick, a good few feet between them, until the recess monitor returned to patrolling the playground. 

“He turns to me and says somethin’ about how rare Charizard’s are, about how he hadda work real hard to get one, and I can tell he was real pissed about it,” Charlie continued with the same wistful fondness. “I told him I didn’t give a fuck—Well, I didn’t say _fuck,_ cause I was maybe nine, but I said somethin’ like that. I told him, I just thought the shiny dragon was cool.” 

The little boy had dirt smeared across the knees of his jeans and his knobby elbows were red and scraped. He had a look of pure loathing on his face. Charlie later found a few bruises on his stomach that seemed precisely elbow-sized. 

“And I dunno what it was, really,” Charlie said, his face falling into a look of thought. This was the part of the story he couldn’t really put into words, because all he had was a feeling in his gut that he’d never really understood. “Here he is glarin’ at me, and I’m _hurtin_ ’. This tiny little kid, and he beat me up. He woulda got his card back for sure if the recess monitor hadn’t broken us up. We was both shrimpy, but he was _tough_.” 

“There was just… somethin’ about that, I guess,” he continued, struggling to find the right words for it all. Maybe because Meyer was tougher than all of Charlie’s fifth grade friends. Maybe because Charlie felt bad about the whole thing. Maybe because elementary school friendships were fickle, maybe because kids forgave easier, or maybe because there was a spark in him that Charlie wantedto have more than he wanted any shiny card. “But we’re standin’ on the wall, and I turn to him, and I says, ‘You wanna come over after school and play?’ He wasn’t buyin’ it—probably thought I just wanted to steal his card again—but I just looked at him, waitin’ for his answer, and he shrugged and said, ‘Sure.’” 

They spent the rest of recess there together, not allowed to go play with the other kids, but they had plenty of fun themselves. Charlie never said he was sorry, but he asked Meyer what other Pokemon cards he had. Just because he was curious, because he didn’t know what else there _was,_ and he promised Meyer he wouldn’t try anything. He kept his hands in his pockets and let Meyer show him each card in turn. There was never anything as special to Charlie as that Charizard card, but he looked with appreciation all the same. 

He didn’t remember what happened when Meyer came over to play. He didn’t remember what they did or what they said, but he supposed he didn’t need to. They’d been friends since and that’s what mattered. 

When he finished his story, he fell silent, gaze returning to the floor. He felt an electricity going through him as he talked about Meyer, which fizzled out and turned back into worry and uncertainty. He didn’t know what he was doing, having thoughts like that about Meyer. He wasn’t supposed to feel that way about his best friend. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

“D’you think—” Charlie began, heart pounding in his chest, because suddenly, he _needed_ to say it, to keep talking, to share more, “—that it’s weird if, like if you known somebody a long time, if…” Nope. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t say it. He couldn’t even look at AR, but he could _feel_ the silence in the room and AR’s patient stare as he waited for Charlie to finish his thoughts. 

“Well, it’s like—my first crush was on this girl in sixth grade. She had real red hair, real curly, too.” He groaned inwardly; where was he going with that? “And I really liked her. And I dated lots of girls. And I liked all of them—I _did_ , I know I did.” But AR wasn’t demanding proof; he was just sitting there and listening. 

“But I think, _maybe_ —” he stressed the word, “—I might like _Meyer,_ too. In the same way that I liked all them girls.” 

He wanted to dissolve into the floor. He wanted to float away and never come back, never look at AR’s face, never hear his response, never feel the pause in the room. 

“I see,” AR said, while Charlie still wanted to die on the spot. “Why don’t I put you in touch with Miss Ionatti?” 

“ _Who_?” In his confusion, Charlie momentarily— _momentarily_ —forgot his discomfort. The weight returned to his chest soon after, of course. 

“She runs a group after school,” AR explained. “You might find it helpful. Or, if you’re not ready to attend yet, I know she would be more than happy to meet with you during her free period.” 

Charlie shrugged. “Sure.” He was barely listening at that point. The world hadn’t ended, so that was something. He finally said it out loud and the world had not ended. But he still couldn’t shake the awkward feeling that hung in the air. It had nothing to do with AR; he reacted fine and he took the whole thing in stride. But that didn’t quell the churning in Charlie’s stomach, the anxiety of finally saying what he’d been keeping tight in his mind for a few weeks—or maybe for even longer than he’d realized. 

Softly, AR interrupted his thoughts, saying, “Try to breathe, Charlie.” 

He finally glanced up to meet AR’s thoughtful stare. He smiled half-heartedly, made a point of exhaling as loudly as he could, and then he returned to playing with the clacky device on AR’s desk. “Thanks,” he said, quietly. 

He still didn’t know what to do about Meyer, but he could feel a shift. He’d said it out loud. He’d admitted it to someone. And no matter what happened with Meyer, at least he was making some progress with himself. 

* * *

Every six days, they had an extended lab period. Every six days, Jimmy would rather measure the velocity of his head hitting the desk that go through another one of Mr. Doyle’s contrived experiments. He and Richard were paired up—as always—working diligently together on something involving torque. In truth, Richard was providing most of the diligence and Jimmy was punching numbers into a calculator with the eraser end of his pencil. 

“You doing anything this weekend?” Jimmy asked, as he jotted down the numbers on their lab sheet. “Fuck, what unit is this supposed to be?” 

Richard glanced over. “I think you. Did something wrong.” He took both papers and started comparing the work on both, while Jimmy set to coloring in the buttons on his calculator to pass the time. “I’ve got a driving. Lesson, on Saturday. But that’s—it.” 

“Wait, who with?” 

Richard started erasing some numbers on Jimmy’s page, shrugged, and said, “Some company that. Emma used to learn to drive.” He glanced up from the gathering eraser dust when Jimmy sighed with relief. “Why?” 

“Just making sure it wasn’t Van Alden,” he explained. “But I don’t think he gives lessons anymore, anyway.” 

Richard shook his head in solemn agreement. “After what your mom did—I’m not. Surprised.” 

Principal Van Alden used to give driving lessons over the summer, probably to make some extra money between school years or something like that. Jimmy took lessons with him, because he could get a discount due to his mother’s involvement with the PTA and the school board. It wasn’t _terrible_ —except for his habit of banging loudly on the dashboard at _every single stop sign_ to make sure students waited a full three seconds. The lectures about obeying the speed limit also grew old after about five minutes. He also had an uncomfortable habit of softly playing some Christian radio station in the car—which no student could change, unless they wanted Van Alden yelling at them to keep their hands on the wheel. 

In the end, Jimmy learned to drive. Nothing bad happened—unlike some other kid, who drove into a guard rail in surprise when Van Alden suddenly shouted about proper steering techniques. Rumor had it, the poor kid let the wheel slide under his grasp instead of turning hand-over-hand and that set Van Alden off. 

Jimmy’s mom had thrown a fit about it. The school board said Van Alden couldn’t give lessons anymore, in order to pacify Mrs. Darmody and her threats to sue the school, the principal, and probably everyone in the tristate area for criminal negligence. It wasn’t really on behalf of the kid with the guard rail—who was fine, but apparently too nervous to ever take his driver’s test. Mostly, she was just indignant that Jimmy had ever gotten into a car with someone who had a habit of asking probing questions about the sacrifice of Christ while waiting at red lights and who threw a fit if students parked with their tires slightly over the line. 

“Just remember—two and ten,” Jimmy said, miming the wheel beneath his hands. 

“No, it looks like. The right answer is 22.41,” Richard answered while frowning at the page. 

Jimmy flicked the end of Richard’s pencil, causing a stray line where the end of the four should be. “ _Driving,_ Richard.” 

“Oh.” 

“You’re _both_ using the wrong formula.” 

Richard and Jimmy glanced up. Meyer stood at their desks, clutching his binder and papers in one hand and the strap of his backpack in the other, with the expression of someone unwillingly shuffling his seat. 

“I—Well, Mr. Doyle says I apparently can’t work on this lab by myself, so I—” Meyer glanced down at their work, “I could help you, with the equation.” 

Well, that was one was to ask to join the group. Jimmy just shrugged as Richard slid over, giving Meyer space to pull up a chair and drop his things on the table. 

“So how come you’re working alone?” Jimmy asked, picking up his pencil to erase his calculator doodles from earlier. 

“Frank’s absent today,” he answered without looking up. 

Jimmy nodded, more to himself, thinking that over. “Hey, listen, if you want to work with us next lab… I mean, I know what Frank can be like. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy, but sometimes he can be a little…” 

Meyer was watching him with a curious smile, which was unnerving. “A little _what_?” 

Unsure if he really wanted to give that answer, Jimmy took a breath and said, “He’s kind of a dick sometimes, that’s all.” He spent plenty of time over at the Capone household, hanging out with Al after practice or on the weekends. Even though Jimmy and Frank were seniors, he knew the younger Capone better—but he knew Frank well enough to know that he could come on a little strong. “Just, if he’s bothering you—”

“He isn’t,” Meyer said, voice clipped. “I tend to let people know when they’re bothering me,” he added in a voice so pointed that Jimmy decided he better not push the issue. 

They fell into an awkward silence, which—for maybe the first time in his life—Richard actually broke. “Oh. I see how we’re supposed to. Calculate that.” 

Jimmy stared at the clock. There were only ten minutes left in the period. He suddenly didn’t have much desire to sit around and watch Richard and Meyer do math, with all the passing remarks that were in equal turns awkward and curt. The classroom was starting to feel a little suffocating. 

“Listen, I gotta… check on something. But this isn’t due until Thursday, right?” 

Richard confirmed and Jimmy said they’d work on it later. He gathered his things and walked up to Mr. Doyle’s desk without looking back. “Hey, uh, I was wondering—We got most of our work done, and I gotta see one of my teachers about a letter of recommendation… Can I go now?” 

Mr. Doyle looked up from his computer, turning to face Jimmy with a broadening grin. “I don’t know, Jimmy, _can_ you?” He giggled. Jimmy wondered how much force it would take to push him from his chair, and with what velocity he would fall to the ground. 

“ _May_ I go now?” he amended through gritted teeth, while Mr. Doyle wrote him a hall pass. Jimmy snatched it, crammed it in his pocket, and left the room, in the direction of the art class. 

He couldn’t stand Mr. Doyle. He was one of those teachers where half his students loved him, thought he was the funniest guy on the planet, and wanted to take every possible class with him. The other half hoped he choked on his next sandwich. 

His distracted, bitter disdain carried him all the way to the art room. He glanced inside, saw no one, and felt a surge of good luck that he’d managed to catch a time when Miss Ionatti didn’t have a class. 

“Hey, sorry to bother you, but—” 

Miss Ionatti glanced up from her desk. Charlie Luciano turned around from the chair opposite. Jimmy froze on the spot and stared at them both. “If you’re busy, I can come back…” 

“No, Jimmy, come in,” Miss Ionatti said with a smile, though not before glancing hesitantly at Charlie, searching for signs that this was okay. Jimmy approached, a little wary. As far as he knew, Charlie didn’t take any art classes. He couldn’t imagine him in an art class, actually. 

“I was just… wondering if you wrote my letter of recommendation yet,” Jimmy said with a shrug. 

A look of genuine concern crossed her face. “Oh, no, Jimmy—I started it over the break, but things were so busy with the holidays—the deadline isn’t close, is it?” 

He reassured her that no, it wasn’t. He was just asking out of curiosity. She looked immediately relieved. 

“Good. I’d hate to jeopardize your chances. I’ll get to it this weekend!” she promised, jotting something on her hand—which Jimmy could only assume had to do with his letter of recommendation. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought. 

But Miss Ionatti paused, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “Why didn’t you ask me during class?” 

Jimmy hurriedly—and with embarrassment that he hoped wasn’t too evident—explained that he forgot. Of course, with no deadline on the immediate horizon, there was no reason it couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, either. He hoped that neither her nor Charlie realize. In truth, he hated physics and liked art. Or Miss Ionatti. Or both. 

“Anyway, I uh—Well I guess I’ll—” His awkward departure was mercifully spared by the bell ringing. He wanted to linger, but he had nothing left to say. Besides, Charlie was glowering at Jimmy as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. There really wasn’t a good way to avoid him, when they had English together next period. 

With a fond smile to both of them, Miss Ionatti said, “Jimmy, I’ll see you in class. Charlie, if you need me—”

“Yeah, thanks,” he interrupted and hurried to leave. Jimmy followed close behind, after a last look and a tentative wave. 

Out in the hallway, he caught up with Charlie, who was slowed down by the outpouring of students and the general hallway congestion. 

“So,” Jimmy said as they trudged along together, pressed closer to one another than they’d ever been, by the sheer volume of students on either side. 

But before he could say another word, Charlie blurted, “So Miss Ionatti gets your dick hard, huh?” Jimmy flushed, but Charlie plowed on. “You got some sorta teacher kink or you just real into her?” 

“Hey, well at least I’m not pining after sophomores,” Jimmy snapped. It felt good to watch the triumphant smirk fall from Charlie’s face. It _didn’t_ feel good to accidentally confirm his feelings out loud. But Charlie fell half a step behind, as he froze in shock for just a moment—and that made up for it. 

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded as he caught up. 

Jimmy shrugged. He was putting two-and-two together quickly. It had never dawned on him before—mostly because of Charlie’s personality and the fact that he didn’t really _care_ —but between the weird vibes going on between Meyer and Frank, along with where he’d just found Charlie… He couldn’t remember the name of the school club on the flyers, but he remembered seeing Miss Ionatti listed as the adviser beneath the rainbow header. “It’s Meyer, right?” he guessed. “Why else would you be talking to her?” 

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about—” Charlie growled. 

Hardly convincing, given the look of downright panic on his face. Pleased to have caught him so taken aback—and without a crude retort at last—Jimmy walked on, with Charlie trailing behind him and insisting on all sorts of explanations that Jimmy knew weren’t true. 

At last, Jimmy spared him the trouble and interrupted him. “What, you finally run outta ‘your mom’ jokes for me?” If he never had to hear another one of those again, from Charlie or anyone else, Jimmy could graduate without resorting to homicide. 

“Yeah well don’t go expectin’ any ‘your dad’ jokes, alright—” 

“That’d be hard,” Jimmy snipped, “seein’ as he’s not really around anymore.” 

For a moment, Charlie hesitated. Jimmy thought he might have won again, but then Charlie murmured in an undertone, “Lucky you.” Somehow Jimmy didn’t feel lucky, but he couldn’t tell that—for whatever reason—Charlie wasn’t much better off. 

Their bickering fell to silence. Jimmy glanced at him as they turned into the English classroom wing. Charlie certainly didn’t deserve it, but Jimmy felt guilty regardless. Sure, the guy was an asshole. But he was an asshole with an easy-to-read face and an obvious look of fear. It wasn’t fair to taunt him about Meyer, no matter how shitty he was. Besides, what would Miss Ionatti think if she knew Jimmy did that? 

“Look,” he said to Charlie with a sigh, “I’m not gonna say anything to anyone, okay? Promise.” 

Charlie stared at him. He seemed to be making up his mind. “Alright,” he muttered, with a hesitation that made it clear he didn’t really believe him. “You better not. And I mean it. If I hear you been sayin’ shit to anybody—”

Jimmy cut him off and repeated, again, that he’d keep his mouth shut. Charlie just nodded a few times, and then added, “It’s not—I mean, I’m not bein’ too—D’you think it’s obvious?” 

Jimmy thought on it a moment. “That you’re practically swoonin’ over him? Only a little bit.” 

For a brief second, Charlie looked concerned. Then, his expression relaxed and he shouldered Jimmy against the locker they were passing. “Fuck you, Darmody.” 

“I’ll pass, thanks. Not really my thing,” he shot back. 

To Jimmy’s surprise, Charlie actually grinned. 

* * *

January passed with its usual sluggishness. It was dark when Arnold left his house in the morning and the sky was already leaking darkness by the time he left in the afternoon. Aside from Martin Luther King Jr. Day and one lucky snowday, there was little to break the monotony that followed their brief winter break. Much as Arnold loathed the tedious task of shoveling and scraping ice from his car, he found himself wishing for a two-hour delay as much as the kids. If nothing else, it meant seeing daylight on his drive to work. In the middle of January, that counted for something. 

There was always one bright spot in the endless winter drudgery—their annual staff party. It was a small affair, but Arnold usually found it amusing. Whether it was a heated spat over biology vs. chemistry between Dean and Gyp, or the baked goods that made it all worthwhile, the party was worth looking forward to. Arnold tidied up his office at the end of the day with somewhat more pep. 

Besides, Arnold was always particularly pleased for his hand in the party’s recurrence each year. No, he didn’t plan it—or even bring his usual potluck dish, as he was not as good a cook as Carolyn and decided not to bother—but the genesis of the event was the truly staggering number of staff birthdays that fell in January. The entire faculty was celebrated at once—an excuse to do something fun in such an abysmal month—but Arnold always received a congratulations and an extra slice of cake, as he celebrated with Johnny the substitute and Eddie the drama teacher. Even the insufferable district superintendent made an appearance for his own birthday commemoration, though that was hardly something Arnold wanted to celebrate. 

Following a long day of college planning, course changes, and actual guidance, Arnold was relieved as he made his way to the staff lounge. Someone had decorated with a few colorful streamers that did little to change the drab walls, cold tile floor, and harsh fluorescent lighting—but the sentiment counted for something. 

There were already a number of faculty members gathered in the room, making smalltalk with one another and helping themselves to snacks. Though they often saw each other during the day, there was always the hustle and bustle of grading papers, preparing lessons, eating their lunch in a hurry, or trying to nap surreptitiously in the corner during a free period. Most of their conversations seemed friendly—which was a relief, given several incidents in the past. 

Although, he noticed Mickey and Eli huddled in the back of the room, heads bent in a fervid conversation that couldn’t foretell anything good. The day, of course, when Arnold would willingly join either Mickey or Eli in conversation had not yet arrived—nor did he expect it ever would. Instead, he looked around for Margaret, who smiled and bid farewell to Sigrid the school nurse before walking over. 

“Happy birthday,” she greeted with a smile. He thanked her and tried to keep his expression warm, though it felt out of place. 

In truth, he wasn’t particularly thrilled about the subject of his birthday. Getting older was hardly worth celebrating—even less so when he was celebrating alone. He didn’t want to tell Margaret that, but he had a sneaking suspicion that she could intuit as much. There was always too much understanding in her eyes; it unnerved him as much as it appealed to him. He changed the subject in a hurry. 

“I never did get the opportunity to ask you—did you have a good holiday?” he asked, realizing a moment too late that he hadn’t steered the conversation in too different a direction. 

“Oh yes. It was quiet, but it’s good to spend with my family. I don’t see my sisters nearly as often as I should—it’s a bit of a drive to see them,” Margaret explained, picking at the cheese and crackers on her plate. “Do you come from a big family?” 

Arnold laughed quietly. “It is rather large, yes.” He hadn’t seen his parents in years and he saw his siblings only slightly more frequently—but yes, it was technically a large family. Numerically speaking. “Your children are Emily and… Tommy?” 

“Teddy,” she corrected and Arnold cringed inwardly. He should have remembered that. Even though he didn’t care much for children, he cared for Margaret—in a professional, colleague capacity. But he was starting to realize just how little she spoke of her home life, in comparison to Arnold’s uncharacteristic sharing. He wasn’t usually one to talk about himself either—but he supposed Margaret had an aura of confidentiality around her. Again, he wondered how he had become the guidance counselor. 

“Do they… live with you full time?” he asked, seeking to fill his void of knowledge where Margaret’s home life was concerned. He knew at least that she was divorced from her children’s father. 

“No.” The firmness in her tone took Arnold by surprise. He glanced at her and she met his gaze, unwavering. “That wouldn’t be the best circumstance.” 

He wasn’t going to push the matter, especially when he was so keen to avoid the topic of divorce entirely—despite how poorly he managed to steer clear of the subject. 

Thankfully, Angela approached with a smile and a plate of little finger sandwiches. “Have you tried these?” she asked after saying her hellos. “They’re wonderful.” 

Arnold seized his opportunity to politely back out of the conversation before he embarrassed himself further in front of Margaret. Because no, he hadn’t tried the sandwiches, but he should. 

Dean stood leaning against the food counter, popping donut holes into his mouth as he watched Hymie and Esther—both history teachers—discussing something regarding their curriculum. He excused himself, nudged around the gathering, and grabbed himself a few of those sandwiches. He caught a few tidbits of what sounded like a debate on Alexander Hamilton. 

The sandwiches were, in fact, as good as advertised. Still, his little jaunt had left him without a conversational partner. There was nothing worse than being seen at a party without anyone to talk to. He wandered the room for a moment, watching, until he noticed Chalky standing on the periphery, doing the same. He was a calculus teacher who Arnold didn’t know well but liked on principle. He was a quiet man with a keen expression, and Arnold could understand his silence. 

He approached and offered a word of greeting. Chalky looked him over, noticed his plate, and said, “My wife made those special for the occasion.” 

“They’re good,” Arnold noted and took a bite to demonstrate his sincerity. “They’re nearly all gone.” 

Chalky nodded with a proud smile and resumed his steady watch of the room. Arnold joined him. “So far, no incidents,” he commented. 

There was a hint of expectation and mischief on Chalky’s face as he answered, “Not yet.” Given the strong personalities involved, Arnold had a feeling it wouldn’t take long. 

“It looks as though our superintendent has finally decided to grace us with his presence,” Arnold noted, pointing his sandwich towards the door, where Nucky stood shaking hands with various members of staff and moving onto the next before any real conversation could be had. 

“Don’t see too much of him around here,” Chalky agreed. It wasn’t wise to talk ill of someone who outranked you, but Arnold could sense the same bitterness in Chalky’s tone. They worked hard with the students, day in, day out. Their jobs mattered, while Nucky reaped the benefits in a distant district office. 

Chalky wasn’t chatty, but then, neither was Arnold. It made for a nice conversation, actually. They exchanged short commentaries on the crowded room, watching people mill back and forth. Neither of them felt pressure to keep the conversation going without pause. 

It was interesting to watch the camaraderie that formed in teachers of similar subjects—with Hymie and Esther, with Sally who taught Spanish and Eddie who taught German. Of course, there was also a loneliness. As a not-teacher in a small guidance department—because the mental and emotional health of students could was not quantifiable in test scores and was therefore the first department to downsize—it was easy to feel adrift among his colleagues. 

Perhaps that’s why he had grown so fond of Johnny Torrio. Substitute teachers were equally rootless in the structure of the high school. Arnold smiled as he saw the man headed towards them—slow and steady, balancing a cupcake on a paper plate. 

“Happy birthday, Arnold,” Johnny greeted, clasping Arnold’s forearm with his free hand. 

He returned the sentiment with a smile. “If I’m not much mistaken, I thought last year was supposed to be your last January with us.” Much as Arnold would miss his company, it was no secret that what Johnny really wanted was retirement. 

But he waved his hand—the cupcake wobbled dangerously—and shook his head. “They keep me here and they keep me here—and when somebody calls out sick, there I am,” he said. “What are we all standing around for? Take pity on my joints, c’mon.” 

And with that, Johnny ushered Arnold and Chalky over to a table, where the three sat facing the room. “Ain’t nobody knows this school better than you,” Chalky said. No one had worked there as long as Johnny—and no one had done as many jobs as Johnny, who went from classroom to classroom, subject to subject, changing everyday as he was needed. 

“It’s a young person’s game now,” Johnny said with a sigh. “At my age, who can look after teenagers all day? You can’t keep up.” 

Arnold laughed. He couldn’t imagine. At least he dealt with one—maybe two—students at a time. Though the lack of other guidance counselors left him busy, it was nothing compared to a classroom full of hormones. 

“Waxey!” Chalky called out, to geometry teacher as he skulked past. “Come sit a while. I got somethin’ to talk to you about.” 

Arnold nodded in polite greeting; he decided it would not be the best moment to jibe Waxey about the upcoming Superbowl and how—as usual—Waxey’s predictions for its participating teams were wrong. Besides, Chalky sat forward and knit his hands together on the table. He seemed serious. 

“You seen any AP prep books floatin’ about?” Chalky asked, surveying Waxey as though he might pull several from his pockets. 

But Waxey just shook his head. “Why would I? There’s no AP Geometry.” 

After the budget cuts a few years ago, there were barely any AP courses at all—and the few they had were in the maths and sciences. Chalky shook his head and sighed, glancing around the room. “Well, then I best be havin’ a little chat with our principle. Somebody’s been swipin’ my books.” 

“Who’d steal calculus books?” Waxey asked with obvious derision. Arnold somewhat shared the sentiment. 

They said no more about missing math books, birthdays, or retirement—because a rather hapless student teacher named Tonino had the misfortune of running into Lucy, who worked in the main office. His misfortune arrived in the yellow sheetcake he was carrying—which was now all over the front of Lucy’s blouse, icing and all. 

“Hey, watch where you’re going! Jeez, what’s your problem!” she yelled. The poor young man just stammered on the spot, offering her napkins, as she continued to hurl insults at him. 

Most of the faculty tried to ignore the altercation—but Lucy made herself hard to ignore when agitated. Gyp smiled and made several loud remarks about Tonino’s clumsiness, throwing a wink at Lucy. Meanwhile, Nucky hurried over to quell the commotion and help Lucy clean up—and to disperse everyone’s attention from the scene. 

As the murmur of conversation began again in the room, Arnold shook his head. “So _that’s_ what it takes to get a little assistance from our superintendent?” 

“What, cake on your tits?” Waxey blurted, as unsubtle as ever. 

“Both of you, _behave_ ,” Johnny advised with a sigh. 

But Arnold just grinned, plucked a donut hole from Johnny’s plate, and said, “Never.” 

* * *

"No, fuck that, you’re wrong. Why the fuck would you wanna _fly_ when you could have super speed?” Benny said, tugging at the loose straps of his backpack as he spoke. “That’s a bullshit power.” 

“It is _not_!” Charlie countered, aggressively zipping up his hoodie in indignation. “Think how fuckin’ cool it’d be, to see everything from all the way up there?” 

“Yeah, sure, it’s cool _once_ , and then what happens when you get bored? Or when you get hit by an airplane or some dumb shit?” 

“I’m not gonna get hit by an airplane! You’re gonna get hit by a bus or somethin’—you’ll run right into it, ‘cause you’ll be goin’ too fast to stop!” 

Meyer sighed. “You’re both wrong. Teleportation is far more practical.” 

Charlie and Benny turned in unison. Charlie at least had the decency to look like he was considering it. Benny just slammed Charlie’s locker shut for him and said, “That’s even more bullshit.” 

“Fine,” Meyer shrugged as they walked out the side door. They always took the back exit and walked around to the buses, because it was closest to their lockers. “Enjoy your whiplash. And Charlie—high altitudes means cold and you hate being cold, so.”  

“Yeah but what happens when you teleport someplace and leave behind an eyebrow? Or a kidney?” Benny insisted. 

Meyer pointed out that he had two kidneys—and two eyebrows, for that matter. They launched into a discussion on the limitations of their supposed powers, and whether Meyer losing body parts was a possibility and whether Benny’s body would naturally adjust to the high speeds. Charlie, meanwhile, resigned himself to flying around in a thick sweater—possibly a snowsuit. The mental image was, admittedly, satisfying. 

Their conversation carried them halfway around the school, until Meyer caught sight of Frank coming their way—along with Al and Jimmy. He didn’t respond to Benny’s claim that his super speed would probably come with super strength anyway. He was a little too distracted by the _look_ Frank was giving him, from their ever-shortening distance. It was embarrassing, and no one should have that face in public, and especially not when Meyer _maybe_ hadn’t mentioned anything about him to Charlie or Benny yet. 

It wasn’t that he minded their knowing, per se. Meyer just hadn’t found the right moment, especially when talking about himself was uncomfortable under the best of circumstances. Whatever he was waiting for, he was pretty sure that Frank _staring at him like that_ in front of his friends was not what Meyer had in mind.   

“Hey Meyer!” Al called out, winking and blowing a kiss. Meyer froze. Or that. That was not the way he had planned. 

He glanced at Frank—who knew enough to wince and look apologetic. It shouldn’t have surprised Meyer that Frank would tell his brother. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Al wouldn’t be able to behave himself, either. 

“Want me to walk you home? Or how ‘bout I come hold your hand?” he shouted in that same sing-song voice. Only now, they were closer and Meyer’s fist balled at his side, and he was about to— 

Charlie launched himself at Jimmy. Benny grabbed Al. 

The surprise was enough to stop Meyer from murder, for just a moment. 

“The fuck’s wrong with you? Can’t keep your goddamn mouth shut?” Charlie shouted, shoving Jimmy in the chest, while Al tried to shake Benny loose with shouts of, “Get this fucker off me!” 

Jimmy just held up his hands, taking a step back out of Charlie’s range. “Hey man, don’t look at me. Just calm down.” Charlie threw his backpack down and grabbed him, giving a rough shake. 

“Calm down—I’ll show you fuckin’ calm—”

“Hey! _Hey_!” Meyer ran over, shoving himself in the middle before anyone could do any damage. “Maybe _don’t_ get suspended? Again?” he shouted. He didn’t want Charlie getting into trouble, or Al making any more comments, and then there was Benny— 

He looked to Frank for help. He had only so many hands. 

Frank grabbed the top strap of Benny’s backpack and yanked him away from Al. 

“The fuck d’you think you’re—” he yelped as he kept struggling, still trying to kick Al.  

“Benny, leave it,” Meyer said in a low voice. Benny wriggled once, then stood still and stared. In fact, they were all staring at Meyer, who lowered his arms from between Jimmy and Charlie and cleared his throat.  

“It’s best if we don’t let this get out of hand,” he said, louder than usual, more pointed and clear. “There’s nothing to fuss about. _Right_?” He glared from Al to Charlie to Benny, casting a last look at Jimmy—though it was tinged with confusion, as he had yet to figure out how Jimmy factored into this as Charlie’s first target. 

After a pause of silence, Charlie reached out and put his hand awkwardly on Meyer’s shoulder. “You okay?” he murmured. His thumb rubbed absently as he stood there. Meyer couldn’t look at Frank, but he could _feel_ him watching.  

He nodded and took a step away, shrugging Charlie’s hand off in a hurry. “Of course.” He kept his eyes on the ground.  

“We gettin’ outta here, or what?” Al asked, grinning as he looked between his brother and Jimmy. “Before pipsqueak over here goes apeshit—” 

With a yell, Benny yanked his arms free from his backpack and jumped on Al, throwing the first punch. Meyer, Charlie, and Jimmy all scrambled for them, but Frank was faster. He seized Benny around the waist and pulled him into the air, both of them shouting over each other. 

“Put me down! I swear, I’ll fuckin’ rip your teeth out, shithead—” 

“Is there an ‘off’ button?” 

“—and shove my foot so far up your ass your fuckin’ eyeball’s are gonna pop out—”  

“He’s outta his goddamn mind—” 

Benny swung his foot. Frank dropped him, staggered back, and doubled over. He swore over and over as he cupped between his legs. With the swiftness that comes from years of practice, Meyer grabbed Benny and Jimmy grabbed Al. They both hauled their friends backwards, before anyone could retaliate.  

Everyone stood in silence, glaring at one another, while Frank righted himself and adjusted his coat. “Are we done here?” he asked, breathless. 

“That depends, you wanna go again?” 

“ _Benny_ —” Meyer warned. 

He glanced at Jimmy, who nodded, tugged Al, and said, “C’mon.” Meyer let go of Benny when they were a few steps away, reaching down to gather his things.  

Only Frank lingered, which was disconcerting. “Aren’t you gong to the AP test prep Mr. White’s having?” 

Meyer stared. It took a moment. “Oh! Right. Yes, thank you for reminding me. Yes, we should… go to that.” 

“You sure?” Charlie asked with far more concern than was necessary. He still looked about ready to tear Frank’s throat out. “If you try a _fuckin_ ’ thing—” he snapped, with accusatory finger jab and everything. 

Meyer grabbed his hand and lowered it for him. “It’s fine, Charlie. You and Benny hurry before you miss the bus.”  

They left with several backward glances, glowering expressions, and an air of unease. Meyer and Frank headed in the opposite direction, back towards the school, in an uncomfortable silence. When they were finally out of sight, Frank sighed and draped his arm across Meyer’s shoulders. “Sorry about that,” he said. “About Al, I mean. I can’t keep anything from my brothers, but… I’ll tell him to cool it.” 

“I would appreciate that,” Meyer replied, icier than the weather. 

They were quiet again, until Frank said, “So he’s a real tough guy, huh? Your friend Charlie?” Meyer thought there was something pointed in his question—but maybe he was just imagining it. Guilty conscience, or something like that. 

Meyer just shrugged and said, “Sure.”  

It was the best answer, as  Charlie wouldn’t want his reputation tarnished. Meyer figured he probably came across as tough to other people, but he still remembered when they were younger and Charlie cried for an hour after watching _Old Yeller._ Besides, it was Charlie’s taste in movies that made Meyer permanently remove the phrase “let’s get down to business” from his vocabulary, or otherwise risk being interrupted with song. But Frank didn’t need to know any of that. 

“You know, he’s probably got a hard-on for you or some shit.” 

Meyer froze. “ _What_?” He couldn’t say he appreciated the phrasing, or the insinuation, or that resentful look on Frank’s face. Or the way his stomach plummeted, or the tiny flare-up of _something_ that made him wonder if Frank was just being petty or if maybe there really was something to the accusation… But no, that couldn’t be the case. “Absolutely not. There’s no way.”   

Charlie certainly didn’t have any feelings for Meyer. If he did, maybe things would have been different, but there was no point in following a train of thought that lead nowhere. Besides, he liked Frank. 

They reached the senior parking lot before long, which was mostly cleared out by that point. Meyer distantly wondered if Benny and Charlie had missed the bus. However, there wasn’t much time to dwell on that, as Frank leaned down for a kiss. 

“So I’ve got some time to kill. While I’m doing math, you know…” 

Meyer smiled as Frank unlocked his car door. “Studying does take time,” he agreed. AP test practice didn’t begin until next marking period. But Al wouldn’t know that—and neither would Charlie or Benny.  

Meyer walked around to the passenger side and sat down. He had barely closed the door when Frank was on him again, kissing him with noteworthy skill. Meyer couldn’t say that it was the most comfortable way to kiss, or that a parking lot was the most romantic place for it, but he didn’t really mind—not with Frank’s hands in his hair or teeth on his bottom lip. 

They broke apart after a while; Meyer didn’t know or care how long it had been. He leaned across the center console, resting his head against Frank’s shoulder, their hands intwined between them. At that angle, the front vent was blowing hot air directly against Meyer’s face; he adjusted the little slats. 

“Sorry about—well, about my friends, too,” Meyer said abruptly. He realized it was probably polite to apologize on behalf of his friends attacking his boyfriend and his brother—even though Al had started it. 

“I can handle it,” Frank said with a shrugged the jostled Meyer’s head. In a lowered voice, he added, “Although, your friend Benny… That really hurt, you know.” 

Meyer glanced up to see Frank staring down at him, with that same small smile and those same intent eyes as before. He shifted, straightening up and staring at the glove compartment. “He can… get a little carried away.” And maybe if Frank hadn’t _picked him up_ , that might have helped matters, but Meyer figured it would be best to not point that out. 

“Maybe you could make it better?” Frank whispered, wrapping his fingers around Meyer’s wrist and guiding his hand towards—

Meyer yanked his hand back. “I’ve got a lot of homework,” he said immediately. Then, in a lighter tone, he added, “Besides, the school parking lot?” 

He only exhaled when Frank laughed and agreed. “Alright. How about I drive you home?” He switched on the radio to fill the silence and started the car. The ride was short and quiet and Meyer kept his hands folded between his knees the whole way.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter four on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/117381898337/nobody-wants-to-be-in-school-forever-chapter-four)


	5. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret struggles with a class that doesn't appreciate Henry James, the confidences of teen pining, and a similarly heartfelt encounter with a colleague. For Jimmy, the finalization of his college applications is one weight off his shoulders—while a few unexpected conversations bring new uncertainty. Meyer learns—or tries to learn—how to navigate romance, friendship, and the areas where they do and don't overlap. Meanwhile, AR makes a discovery, Benny eats applesauce, and Charlie's taste in movies remains as atrocious as ever.

The class stared at her with blank expressions. A few students were kind enough to pretend to leaf through their books, while others sat with their heads in their hands, staring out the window or at the phone in their laps that they thought Margaret couldn’t see. She sighed.  

“Let’s approach this in a different way. What do you think Henry James is trying to accomplish? Are the ghosts real, or is the governess imagining them?” she asked, pacing the front of her class. 

Slowly, uncertainly, Richard raised his hand—then brought it back down, then raised it again. Margaret looked at him. He stared at his book as he muttered, “I think. They’re real.” 

“They’re not real,” Emma immediately countered from the seat beside him. “The governess is just crazy.” 

Undeterred, Richard flipped through a few pages of his book, and without looking at his sister, he said, “But they’re real. To the governess.” 

Margaret beamed. “That’s a very astute distinction. Is something only real if we all perceive it equally? Or can it be real even if it’s only perceived by one?” 

Silence again fell around her classroom. Either the question was too philosophical for a class at that hour, or everyone was merely taking their time to ponder a thoughtful and deep response. More than likely, however, they were all just asleep or pining for their lunch period. When no one ventured an answer, Margaret attempted to coax the conversation along by asking, “Does anyone else have an opinion on the ghosts?” 

No one did. “Does anyone have an opinion on the book?” The awkward shuffling and averted eyes were enough of an answer. _Turn of the Screw_ was not a winner with her students. 

Katy offered a tentative hand. Margaret called on her with great hope. She wasn’t the most talkative student and Margaret was eager to get her engaged. “I just… I guess I don’t get why? It’s like, if everything’s so vague, then why even bother?” 

Margaret asked her to clarify what she meant. Katy shrugged, looking down at her sneakers. “I don’t know. Just, if you’re going to write a book, why write a book that no one gets?” 

Julia’s hand shot into the air. Without waiting to be called on, she said, “It’s not that no one gets it. Obviously people get it if we’re still talking about it. He just wrote it so that there’s multiple meanings, rather than one definite thing. That’s not the same as not getting it.”  

Margaret smiled. “That’s a very good point, Julia.” As an afterthought, she added, “And thank you for starting the discussion Katy. James is vague and it’s important that we talk about it.” 

Katy resumed chewing her pen cap, with a bored haughtiness that suggested she didn’t really appreciate Julia’s answer and that she didn’t feel particularly thanked for starting any discussion. Margaret did manage to get a conversation going, however. A few other students offered their interpretations. It seemed they were relieved to discover that the text was _supposed_ to have multiple meanings, thus alleviating their fear of being wrong.   

Towards the end of class, they circled back to Margaret’s original question—at what point is something real? 

“Here’s the problem I have with that,” Emma said, when a few students seemed to be agreeing that maybe the ghosts were real in some sense. “I can say there’s somebody tap dancing on your desk right now. That doesn’t mean anybody’s _actually_ tap dancing on your desk.” 

“That’s a fair point,” Margaret said. She perched on the edge of her desk as she addressed the class—and no, it didn’t seem that anyone was tap dancing on it. “But what if you really believed there was? Doesn’t the governess really believe the figures she’s seeing?” 

Katy chimed in again, to say that she agreed with Emma. It didn’t matter how hard you believed something. It didn’t make it true or real. 

“Has anyone in here ever had a crush?” Her students’ heads shot up. They were surprised by the question, and most of her students nodded awkwardly in agreement. “Well here’s something to consider. When you have a crush, aren’t you the only one who feels it? Your friend doesn’t feel the same butterflies—or, you hope not. Does that mean what you feel isn’t real, just because you’re the only one who feels it?” 

Her students chewed that over for a moment. A few people ventured that emotions were different from perception—and Margaret had to agree that they were. She wasn’t sure herself how much she agreed with her own suggestion. But it got her students talking, which was always the goal. A few students also said that it made sense, that maybe the ghosts could be real to the governess without being real to everyone else. 

Katy had one last parting thought. She raised her hand and with a sigh, asked, “Okay but, does it matter?” 

Margaret chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re getting a bit ahead of the syllabus. We won’t be reading the existentialists until later.” Maybe Katy would find her real interest with Albert Camus. Or maybe she’d find her real interest at the graduation ceremony in June, when it was all behind her and she’d be through with literary analysis forever. 

At any rate, they were finished with James for the time being, as the bell rung and chased away all of their thoughts of ghosts and governesses. Margaret encouraged everyone to come prepared for more discussion tomorrow, as they’d be wrapping up _Turn of the Screw_ by the end of the week. She ignored the sighs of relief that bounced around the classroom, an underscore to the hurried sounds of books closing and backpacks zipping. As her students filed out, Emma lingered and Richard lingered with her until she shooed him out with a quick nod. 

With some hesitance, she approached Margaret’s desk. “So I… wanted to ask your advice. About, you know, some things.” 

“What sort of things?” Margaret asked with a touch of concern. Neither of the Harrows were particularly adept with voicing their emotions, so Margaret couldn’t be sure if this concerned an English paper or a more serious matter. With Richard, she chalked it up to shyness and insecurity. For Emma, Margaret always thought that she was simply too practical for her own good, that she preferred to charge onward rather than take a moment for introspection. It was a trait Margaret understood rather well.  

With a difficult sigh, Emma cast a glance over her shoulder, to make sure that no students had arrived yet for Margaret’s next class. “I thought maybe we could talk about it more, after school or something, but I didn’t wanna just… show up at your house or anything.”

Margaret smiled and assured her that she could show up anytime she’d like. She also promised a Warm Beverage of Choice for any visits Emma would like to make, whether it was to work on an assignment or talk through a problem or complain about Henry James. 

Emma smiled and gave a nervous laugh, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. “Well, I’ve been thinking… I guess like you were saying about having a crush on somebody. Is that the kind of thing you should maybe keep real to only you, or is it worth saying something?” 

Ah. That sort of a problem. “I suppose it all depends. Do you think it’s real?” Margaret asked with a teasing quirk of her lips. 

Grudgingly, because it meant agreeing with Richard’s earlier literary statement, Emma admitted that it was real to her. “But I don’t know how to tell if it’s real to the other person too. And that’s the problem.” 

Margaret nodded in understanding, though she didn’t say much more. Two of her students for her next class walked in and took their seats. They promised to discuss it more later and made arrangements to talk after school. “I’d offer to drive you home, but I’ve got to late today to advise a club.” 

“The lit mag, right?” Emma asked without hesitation. “That’s okay. Maybe after dinner?” 

For a brief moment, Margaret wondered why Emma knew that the lit mag met on Thursdays. But she had her suspicions, so she didn’t comment. Instead, they made their plans to meet in the evening and Margaret wrote a late pass for Emma’s next class.

“I don’t think it needs to be a big production,” Margaret said as a last word of advice. She saw plenty of sweeping gestures—students asking each other out through Valentines in the school newspaper, balloons adorning lockers, and giant “Will you go to prom with me?” signs at sporting events. But Margaret always felt a twinge of sympathy for the student on the receiving end. It always seemed more uncomfortable than flattering. “If you care about someone, and if they care about you, I think you’ll be able to talk it over together. Maybe it will go as you hoped, but even if it doesn’t, I know you’ll still be close.” 

Emma nodded, tugging thoughtfully on the loose ends of her backpack straps. “Yeah. I guess so.” 

In an undertone, Margaret added, “But you’re bright and you’re beautiful and they’d be a fool not to fall for you.” 

Emma laughed and rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, to hide her embarrassment at Margaret’s compliment. “You sound like my grandma.” 

“Then your grandma must be bright as well. Now go on, so you’re not too late.”

* * *

On his way to lunch, Jimmy stopped dead in his tracks. Right there, at the cafeteria door, his mother sat at a table, smiling at students and passing out flyers. She caught sight of Jimmy and waved him over. 

The back of his neck burning with embarrassment, he pushed his way through ambling students, keeping his eyes on the floor. 

“Ma, what’re you doing here?” he asked in an undertone. 

“The music department needed volunteers to sell tickets during lunch hours. And since I had some free time, I thought I’d help out,” she answered more loudly than he’d like. She placed a bright blue flyer in his hands. It had dice on it and said “Guys and Dolls” in giant lettering, along with dates and times of performances. While Jimmy looked it over, trying to stand out of the way, his mother sold a pair of tickets to a freshman girl and her friend. 

He folded the flyer and put it in his back pocket. “How come you’re selling tickets already if it’s not until next month?” 

“That’s only a few weeks away, James. You’d be surprised how that time flies when you’re putting together a show,” she chided with an indulgent smile. “You know, they’re rehearsing during this period.” 

She had that tone, when she wanted Jimmy to do something but wasn’t going to ask. Only this time, he wasn’t sure what she was hinting at. “Yeah?” he asked, when she said nothing else. 

“They’re so terribly behind on sets,” she said and shook her head, as though it were a great shame. So that’s what she wanted. “Don’t you have friends in the musical, dear?” 

“Uh—not really?” His friends weren’t really interested in musical theatre. He knew Pearl said she had a big part—she talked about it during art class sometimes and she was really excited about it—but she was the only person Jimmy knew. 

His mother just pursed her lips and said “Hm. I must be mistaken.” Jimmy knew she didn’t mean it; she was, after all, never wrong. “If you had friends in the musical, I thought that it might be nice if you helped them with their sets during your free period, but if you’re not interested…” 

“I’ll go down and help out, alright?” Jimmy said with a sigh. He didn’t know if Pearl would be there, but he hoped she would. It wouldn’t be so bad to see her for an extra period. Besides, he knew that she cared a lot about that show. Painting sets couldn’t be too hard, could it? 

His mother smiled brightly and kissed his cheek. He blushed dark red. “That’s so good of you, Jimmy!” 

“Ma, not in school, c’mon…” he muttered, pulling from her embrace. She gave his cheek a pat and told him once again that he was good for lending a hand, before he could wriggle free and get on his way. 

The auditorium was on the other end of the school from the lunchroom, but the halls were thinning out as most students made their way to their next period. He stuck his head into the auditorium uncertainly. It was a big room, with a dusty smell, and Jimmy was never in there much except for one or two assemblies. There were students all over—some eating their lunch on the risers before the stage, while others rehearsed lines from the auditorium seats. On stage, a girl with thick curly hair was standing on a chair and singing, while the drama teacher Mr. Cantor plunked out the melody on the piano. 

_“Take back your mink,”_ she sang, in a silly voice, as Jimmy limped down the long aisle of the auditorium. A few kids looked up at him, but mostly no one really paid attention. _“Take back your pearls. What made you think that I was one of those girls?”_

He stood awkwardly behind Mr. Cantor, unsure of what to do or where to go. After another verse, he reached out and tapped his shoulder. “Uh, excuse me?” 

The piano stopped. “What?” he asked sharply. “We’re rehearsing, can’t you see?” Mr. Cantor looked him up and down, frowning. “Who are you?” 

“Jimmy Darmody,” he answered. 

“Oh! You’re Jimmy! Your mother is a saint, a true patron of the arts!” he exclaimed, his demeanor changing completely. He braced Jimmy with one arm, giving a dramatic flair with the other. Jimmy squirmed and tried to put more space between them. “Billie, give us one moment please,” Mr. Cantor said to the girl on stage, who climbed down from the chair and sat down. 

“She said you needed help painting sets?” Jimmy asked and Mr. Cantor beamed.  

“Oh, yes, yes, yes! Just out in the hall, through that open door—do you see?”  

Jimmy squinted. There was a door backstage that lead into the music hallway. He could see a couple kids kneeling on the floor, bent over what he assumed were the sets. He nodded and Mr. Cantor shuffled him off in that direction with some insistent gesturing. As Jimmy crossed backstage, he heard the piano start again as they started the song from the beginning. _“He bought me the fur mink five winters ago. And the gown, the following fall.”_

He saw Pearl immediately. She was working on one set, while two other kids he didn’t know sat at another. “Hey,” he said as he walked over.  

She glanced up and beamed. “What are you doing here?” 

“Helping paint sets, that’s what.” He turned his head sideways so he could look down at what Pearl was working on. She was painting huge orange and pink streaks across the top. There was a half-painted palm tree in the lower corner. “Looks good for far.” 

“Yeah, but this is only one scene. We’ve still got to paint New York next.” 

Jimmy heaved himself to the floor, bracing his hands against the wall as he lowered his leg. He cringed a little. It was mostly better, but he still couldn’t bend his knee as much as he was used to. It was okay for sitting in chairs, but sitting on the floor was still a little hard to manage. 

“Your leg still bothering you?” Pearl asked with concern as she set the paper plate of paint between them and handed him a brush. 

He shrugged and swirled the brush through the orange. “It’s not too bad. I’ve still got that brace though, and it’s kind of awkward.” He didn’t want anybody fussing over him. He could handle things himself. “So what’s this supposed to be?” he asked to change the subject. 

“Nightclub someplace in Havana,” Pearl answered. Without waiting a beat, she asked, “So how long do you have to wear the brace?” 

Jimmy sighed. “Only a little longer, I think. They said it would be off by spring. I’ve got an appointment at the end of the month, so they’ll tell me then if everything healed okay.”  

Pearl scooted closer to him as she worked her brush across the set. She reached right in front of him, their hands knocking together. “Watch it, this is my part of the sky,” she teased. 

He nudged her hand back with a laugh. “Too bad. I’m taking it.” 

“Not if I paint it first!” She grabbed the paint plate and held it away from Jimmy, making quick strokes with her other hand. 

Jimmy strained to reach the paint, stretching right in front of her while she giggled. He waved his paintbrush through the air in hopes of swiping something, but it was no use. So he did the next best thing. While she played keep-away with the paint plate, he plucked the brush right from her hand. She squealed in indignation. “I need that!” 

But he just held it above his head, the way she had done. Pearl stood, and Jimmy brought it down to the floor. She sat, and he raised it up. She finally stretched across his chest, her hand swatting at his forearm as she tried to reach his wrist. They were laughing, unaware of the dirty looks the other two painters were giving them as their ruckus echoed in the empty hallway. 

Pearl slipped and fell in Jimmy’s lap, her elbow jabbing right into his leg. He cried out and she scrambled back. 

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Are you okay?” 

Jimmy pulled the grimace from his face and nodded, handing back the paintbrush. Maybe that was enough playing around. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s just finish Havana, okay?” 

Pearl nodded without a word. She took back the brush. They worked in silence for a little, making their way across the top of the set. After a moment, Pearl said, “So what do you like more? Art or football?” 

“I like them both,” Jimmy answered without hesitation. There was a time when he might have said football, but he’d come to really like their art class. Maybe he wasn’t as good as some other people. It didn’t come as naturally. But it was still fun. 

“So… are you…” Pearl hesitated, then asked, “Well it sucks about your leg, but it’s good that you found something else you really like, right?”  

Jimmy didn’t see why it mattered to her, whether he liked art or not. But he shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I just wish I didn’t have to miss my last season to do it.” Even with the good things that happened since, he still hated that he missed all the games. It was long since over. They’d done alright. But it wasn’t the scores that mattered. Senior year was supposed to be great, full of last memories and time at the top. But all he got after years of JV sports was sitting on the bench when he was finally supposed to be starting. 

“I know what you mean,” Pearl said in a slow voice. Jimmy glanced up at her. She was intent on her painting, avoiding his eye. After some hesitation, she said, “In 8th grade, I was in a bad car accident. It basically fucked up the whole year for me.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. But she shrugged the same way he did, trying to play it off like it was nothing. He knew how that felt, definitely. 

“So I guess you never noticed, huh?” Pearl asked, glancing up. There was something dark in her tone and Jimmy didn’t understand what she meant. He just shook his head, while she gestured at her face. “It’s not as bad now, plus I finally found a good concealer.”  

She rubbed her face with the heel of her hand while Jimmy leaned closer to see what she was talking about. With her make up rubbed away, she traced a finger diagonally across her face. Jimmy could see the indentation from a scar. “Glass from the windshield,” she explained. “Everybody made fun of me.” 

“’Cause you got in a car accident?” Jimmy asked, incredulous. 

“Middle school,” she said by way of explanation. “It’s not like they need a reason.” 

“Well I think you’re—you can’t even notice it,” Jimmy fumbled. He glanced down at the set, twirling his brush absently against the outline of a cloud. “It’s like with this, right? Gotta have all those brush strokes to make it look nice.” 

Pearl laughed softly. “That’s really sweet of you,” she said, like nobody had ever told her something like that before. Jimmy just nodded, suddenly too embarrassed to look at her. 

“Hey Pearl,” somebody said from the doorway. They both glanced up. It was the girl from earlier, with the curly hair. Jimmy all but forgot that they were rehearsing in the other room. “Mr. Cantor wants to run through your songs.”  

“Oh, thanks.” Pearl set her brush down on the plate and stood. She turned, staring down at Jimmy, with unspoken words hanging in the air between them. At last, she exhaled and said sincerely, “Thank you. For helping out.” 

Jimmy told her it was no problem, watching as she walked backstage. The other girl—she said her name was Billie—sat down in Pearl’s place and picked up the brush. She made some small talk with him and she seemed friendly enough, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He just heard strings of words, a few questions and his own non-committal voice, and the piano in the other room.  

Then, when they reached the refrain, Jimmy heard a high, clear soprano voice from the auditorium. _“I’ll know, when my love comes along. I won’t take a chance.”_

He craned his neck to stare through the open door. Pearl stood center stage, her voice ringing out bright. It floated from high note to high note effortlessly. _“I’ll know he’ll be just what I need, not some fly-by-night Broadway romance. And you’ll know at a glance by the—“_

“Jimmy? Jimmy?” Billie prodded him with the handle of her paintbrush. “You’re dripping paint all over the floor.” 

* * *

Meyer had his fingers against his temples, elbows keeping the pages of _My Antonia_ pressed open against the table. They always had a short quiz to make sure they actually read the chapters—which of course Meyer hadn’t finished, yet. He got his work done, just… not always in the most timely fashion. He’d probably still be cramming in a few last pages when the bell rang in English and he had to put the book away. But that’s how his days went. Some days, first period’s homework got done during homeroom, second period’s homework during first period, and so on and so forth. But he always got it done and that was what mattered. 

He felt the vibration through the lunch table as Benny dropped his tray and sat down opposite. Meyer took one hand from his head to wave without looking up. Benny was usually good about letting him get work done if he knew he needed it. 

Not, however, on that day. Without warning, Benny reached over and snatched the book right out from under Meyer’s elbows. 

“I need that!” he snapped, head shooting up and arm darting across the table to grab it back. But Benny dog-eared a page and stuck it on his lap, smirking. “I do have a quiz next period, you know,” Meyer said, to emphasize that the situation was serious. He certainly wasn’t reading Willa Cather for fun. 

“Yeah, well I’ve got a quiz for you now, so,” Benny said. He picked up his straw, jabbed it against the table until it popped through the paper, and crammed it into a carton of orange juice. “Won’t take long. Then you get your book back, alright?” 

Meyer sighed and agreed; he could always read the Sparknotes from his phone instead.What Benny could possibly want to _quiz_ him on, however, was another matter…   

“So Meyer…” Benny picked up a small container of applesauce from his tray and examined it, tilting it this way and that. He seemed to be checking for the expiration date—or maybe just stalling. Meyer huffed and waited for more, but Benny was intent on his applesauce.  

Of all the days for Benny to learn patience, the one where Meyer had a quiz to study for was _not_ ideal. “Yes?” he prompted with a note of annoyance, when Benny’s unusual silence persisted. Finally, Benny stopped investigating his applesauce and looked at him. There was something uncharacteristically thoughtful in his expression. He almost seemed serene—which was worrying. Absurdly, Meyer felt like Benny was trying to read his mind through the persistence of his gaze alone. 

His intent focus did not falter. Benny didn’t look away as he peeled the tinfoil from the applesauce, licked it, crumpled it into a ball, and flicked it to the floor. Meyer watched it bounce along the tile.

“So are you gonna tell me about your boy troubles or what?”

“My _what_?” 

Meyer's focus snapped back to Benny, but he wouldn't look away. He was determined to hide his shock. But internally, he might as well have fallen out of his seat, rolled across the floor, and just kept rolling away forever. They were not about to have that conversation, _in the lunchroom,_ were they? He’d been trying to work out the right way to tell Benny—and Charlie—but he just… couldn’t think of how to bring it up without being awkward. Personal announcements like that were weird. But, as per usual, Benny had his own way of doing things. 

When Benny didn’t specify what he meant—no doubt waiting for Meyer to fold, _the bastard—_ Meyer mustered as much skepticism as he could and asked, “What do you mean, ‘boy trouble?’” 

Benny shrugged. “Well, it’s this whole shit about you dating Frank Capone.” 

Meyer swallowed. “Where did you hear that?” He had no problems telling Benny, but if there were rumors going around the whole school… That was something else entirely. 

But to his great relief, Benny said through a mouthful of applesauce, “I didn’t _hear_ it. I just know things, Mey.” He left the “duh” unsaid, but it was implied. 

At last Meyer smiled—just a little. There was no way a personal conversation could ever be enjoyable, but at least Benny and his intuition had spared Meyer the pains of trying to bring it up himself. “And how is this _trouble_ , exactly?” 

“You do realize he’s an _asshole_ , right?” Benny said with incredulity. Flecks of applesauce flew dangerously through the air as Benny waved the plastic spoon for emphasis. “I mean, I’m thinkin’ you got a thing for assholes, but there have gotta be better assholes—not that I’m implyin’ anything that may or may not be going on behind closed doors.” 

Meyer’s face hardened. “Nothing is ‘going on’ behind closed doors, thank you very much.” He wanted that very clear; he wouldn’t have Benny making all sorts of insinuating, uncomfortable _comments_. 

Benny looked skeptical for only a second, before he nodded in what seemed to be agreement and understanding. Meyer relaxed; part of him had expected more probing about _that_ , but maybe he should stop being surprised whenever Benny seemed to intuit the right answer.  

As Benny downed the rest of his applesauce like it was a shot glass, he resumed staring at Meyer, waiting. Their silence was awkward for only a moment. If Benny knew _everything_ , apparently, then there was really no sense or purpose in denying it. Meyer sighed. “Alright, yes _fine_ , we’re dating.” 

“Because…?” 

What kind of question was that? Meyer squinted and offered, “Because I like him?” as an explanation. That was why people dated each other, was it not? 

“And Charlie…?” 

Meyer froze. Benny was licking the last bits from his empty applesauce container. Meyer stared. After what felt like far too long a pause, though it was only a few seconds, he muttered in a strained voice, “Charlie has nothing to do with this. He doesn’t know.”  

But that wasn’t what Benny meant, because he pressed on with, “Yeah, but _what about Charlie?_ ”  

Meyer wasn’t certain if he was breathing or not. He must have been, because he hadn’t passed out yet—which was unfortunate, because passing out would have spared him a response. In a distant way, he noticed his palms were starting to hurt. He unclenched his hands and glanced at them, noticing little half-moon red marks from his nails. He sighed. 

“You know as well as I do that Charlie is not an option.” 

It was a fact. There was nothing to be upset about, because facts were just that—facts, and nothing more. Charlie didn’t and wouldn’t like him. So therefore, Meyer wouldn’t dwell on something so moot. He didn’t understand what Benny hoped to gain by pushing it, other than possibly Meyer’s mortification on the discussion of his love life and his rather unfortunate feelings. 

“It’s best if we move on from this subject,” he finally said, terse. 

Benny’s method of agreement was to toss _My Antonia_ across the table at him. Meyer caught it against his chest—though not without some fumbling, as it wasn’t exactly a light book—and searched for his place. 

He had only read about four pages, when Benny chimed in with, “You two doin’ anything special for Valentine’s Day?” 

Meyer stared at the page so that Benny wouldn’t see his sudden flush. “I, uh, think he said he’s going to surprise me.” God, it was so _embarrassing_. Meyer wasn’t nearly as demonstrative as Frank and he thought holidays where you supposed to show affection were supremely awkward. The thought of Frank surprising him with a date was sweet—very sweet—but that didn’t save him from turning pink when saying it out loud.  

“Does that mean you get to go to prom?” Benny asked, as he started on his packet of French fries. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment and declared that they were slightly warm—an improvement over their quality most days. 

Meyer just shrugged and turned the page, though he had stopped absorbing the less-than-scintillating details of prairie life a few paragraphs ago. “I don’t know. He hasn’t said anything.” Truthfully, Meyer hadn’t even thought about it. He supposed that if they were still dating, Frank would ask him to prom. But that fell under the category of “things Meyer didn’t devote much brain space to thinking about.”  

“So who’s Charlie going to prom with?” 

“Benny, it’s only _February_. I don’t think he’s going with anyone yet.” Though no doubt he would have plenty of choices, Meyer thought with only a note of bitterness. 

“I’m just thinkin’ ahead, that’s all!” Benny said, holding up his salty French-fry hands in defense. “Besides,” he added, pausing to slurp from his straw. “If you go to prom with Frank, then maybe Charlie oughta take me. That way we all go.” 

Meyer raised an eyebrow. Charlie and Benny couldn’t behave themselves on a good day. He doubted that adding formalwear would change anything. “Somehow I don’t think Charlie is going to bring you as his date.” 

“I’ll just have to woo him harder,” Benny said dryly, and Meyer snorted. “Or find some other gullible senior.” Though Benny was only kidding, and it was funny, Meyer’s stomach still did something odd at the thought of Benny trying to woo Charlie. It was, of course, a fruitless endeavor in any case. But there were some gut reactions that couldn’t fade, even when Meyer had someone else and didn’t care anymore.

“So what’s your sudden fascination with prom?” Meyer asked as he reached across and helped himself to one of Benny’s fries. He was right; they were slightly more cooked than usual. 

“Sounds like fun, that’s all. We just gotta get your asshole-of-choice to prom-pose, and then find dates for me and Charlie.” 

Meyer hesitated, and then muttered, “Look he’s not that much of an asshole.” Benny gave him a look, to which Meyer amended, “Alright, he’s not more of an asshole than you or Charlie. And I stick around with both of you.” 

Benny accepted the explanation, though he still shrugged and said, “I’m glad you’re happy… even if he’s not my first choice for you.” There was familiar laughter in his eyes, so Meyer wouldn’t take the comment too seriously. He knew Benny well enough to tell he would tease him like that no matter what.  

“You’re worse than my grandmother, you know that?” he accused. 

Benny smirked and, clutching his hand to his heart, said in a voice both dramatic and familiar, “I just want you to find a nice Jewish boy, is that so much to ask?” 

Meyer smacked him with _My Antonia._

* * *

Their sessions with one another were becoming less frequent, as the football season ended and Jimmy was coping better with his leg injury. The increased workload as the year went on also lessened Jimmy's free time for guidance appointments. By February, they met only occasionally, when Jimmy had downtime in class or a teacher willing to let him take 15 minutes for an appointment. 

Most of their conversations were about college admissions. Arnold made sure to take care of all Jimmy's documentation personally—sending out his transcripts and letters of recommendation, to assuage any concerns about more inept guidance faculty handling the material. His SAT scores from the fall test were exemplary and there was no need for re-testing. With nearly everything sent and submitted, Jimmy was almost finished. All that remained with the supplement application for Princeton—which proved to be a bigger stumbling block than the other components. 

"They're asking about how I'm a leader in my community," Jimmy explained, as Arnold skimmed over the supplement questions Jimmy had printed. "But I don't know what to say.” 

"This could be a good opportunity to talk about your experience playing football," Arnold suggested. “Perhaps even the effects of your injury? Or one of your other extracurriculars?” 

Jimmy shrugged, unconvinced. "I guess none of that seems like leadership to me. Like with football, I only do what Coach Thompson says. It’s just following orders. And even National Honor Society, we do charity stuff, but you’re not _leading_ anything.” 

Arnold asked if there were any specific instances where Jimmy had led a project, or perhaps a difficult game when his teammates had looked to him for guidance. But Jimmy offered only obstinate rejection to the idea that he had ever led anybody. Arnold kept prodding with various suggestions, spinning circumstances, until Jimmy had shot down every suggestion and Arnold was entirely out of ideas. He hadn’t known Jimmy to be so sullen since their first sessions together. 

“Alright, Jimmy,” Arnold said with just a note of frustration. He exhaled, to keep his demeanor even. “What makes you say you’re _not_ a leader?” 

“Because,” he snapped, “no matter what you’re doing, they treat you like you're just a fucking kid and that's it! And then these schools want to know how make a difference or whatever, but what’re you supposed to _say_ , when no one ever lets you have that chance?" 

Arnold was used to outbursts in his office, but they didn't often come from Jimmy. He set aside the papers and folded his hands on his desk, studying him intently. Jimmy just folded his arms and looked at the clock. "Do you feel like you haven't accomplished enough?" he asked, his voice soft to counter Jimmy’s. 

There was a long pause before Jimmy shrugged. His refusal to look at Arnold confirmed that yes, he probably did feel that way. "You have impressive grades. You've been involved with your school, with your community. Unless you cut out sleeping, I don't see how you could have done more than you're already doing." 

Jimmy scoffed. "Yeah, but they still _want_ more." And with the bags under his eyes, Arnold wondered just how much sleep he sacrificed already. 

Arnold let the pause hang between them, waiting for Jimmy to say more. He remained silent, looking like the world had settled on his shoulders. Gently, as though afraid the room might shatter again if he pressed too hard, Arnold said, “Tell me what leadership looks like.” 

Jimmy took a moment to consider—that, or he had decided to ignore Arnold entirely. At last he said, with a firm resolution in his voice, "It means making choices. It's sticking to your guns, and doing what you have to do, and—I don't know…" 

Arnold prompted him to continue. He jotted a few notes to himself and told Jimmy was he sounded like he was on a roll. This was not the moment to stop and question himself. 

"I guess it's about stepping up, being something, working hard. All that shit your posters talk about," he muttered, gesturing to the laminated sayings about "doing your best" and "never giving up" that lined Arnold's office, just as they lined every classroom. 

"Don't you do that?" Arnold asked. "Don't you 'stick to your guns' and make choices? Maybe you don't decide the plays, but you decide to play hard, to commit yourself." 

"That just sounds like doing what you're told to me," Jimmy countered. 

"Maybe,” Arnold conceded. But he didn’t see why that should stop him. “It all depends on how you present it. Give your answer—but don’t get hung up on what you think you _should_ be.” 

Jimmy smirked. “You should put that on a poster.” 

Arnold laughed. It could go right next to the cat-who-saw-itself-as-a-lion. He genuinely thought the posters were as trite as his students did. But the school wanted his office to look “inviting” and “inspiring.” And evidently, cute forest animals encouraging each other to “hang in there” were the only acceptable way to do that. They were certainly not to Arnold’s taste. 

“I’ll figure it out,” Jimmy concluded. 

Arnold couldn’t say if Jimmy had stumbled onto an answer for Princeton or if he was just tired of talking about it. In any case, he returned the printed forms to Jimmy and encouraged him to write truthfully. “You might surprise yourself. You’re passionate, you’re intelligent, and that’s what they want to see.” 

They were reaching the end of their session—and the end of the school day. “Do you have any plans for tonight?” Arnold asked conversationally. Jimmy said only homework. “And how are you finding your workload?” Jimmy said he could handle it. Apart from his outburst about leadership, he’d been mostly quiet all afternoon. The same silence seemed to settle around them once more. 

“Is something the matter?” Perhaps they should have discussed it sooner, rather than going over Jimmy’s applications. But he made it clear that college was the priority and it was one of the few things that Arnold could get him to talk about extensively.

“Nah, it’s just… End of the day, you know. I’m thinking about stuff I gotta do tonight,” Jimmy answered evasively. It could have been nothing at all, but Arnold had a nagging concern that they were sliding backwards.

“I often find that thinking out loud is very useful.” It was a lie, as Arnold preferred never to share his thoughts until they were fully formulated. But Jimmy didn’t need to know that. 

Out of nowhere, he said, “Valentine’s Day is coming up.” 

Ah. So maybe that was the cause. “Do you have anyone special in mind?” Although he talked over all sorts of problems with students, romantic affairs were never Arnold’s specialty. With teenagers, it was often so dramatic—and Arnold found those sorts of relationships baffling even on a good day. He would rather handle transcripts, class outbursts, or other behavioral problems, rather than discuss his students' heartache. 

“Well, I don’t know. You ever think you like two people at once?” Jimmy asked, who looked as uncomfortable saying it out loud as Arnold felt hearing it. 

“I can’t say that I have,” he answered cautiously. It wasn’t his job to share personal details. Besides, he was an adult. He had different relationships entirely. 

“There was somebody who I guess I thought about a lot. But she’s not really someone I could—it’s not like anything’s gonna happen,” Jimmy mumbled with a shrug, which was the typical defense against coming across too seriously with such a heavy confession. “But then there’s somebody else who I guess I maybe didn’t really notice before. I don’t know. It’s stupid.” 

Jimmy craned his neck to stare at the clock some more while Arnold considered the information. He thought only briefly of Carolyn; he hadn’t heard much from her. Lately, all updates came through her lawyer. “Why do you think nothing could ever happen with the first person?” Arnold asked, in an attempt to be supportive. It couldn’t be more insurmountable than a divorce, surely. 

He received only a mumbled response. Arnold asked Jimmy to repeat himself, but he mumbled again. Arnold thought he heard the word “preacher” and asked Jimmy once more. Finally, he said, “Look, I like Miss Ionatti okay! I know it’s dumb, but I do and I can’t help it, so.” 

Arnold stared at him. She was a younger member of the faculty, but she was still ten years older than Jimmy. And she was a teacher. And happily in a relationship, if Arnold remembered correctly. _And she was a teacher._  

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Jimmy snapped, aggressive once more. “It’s dumb, I already said it was.” 

“You don’t know what I’m going to say.” 

“Yeah, I do, you’re gonna tell me it’s gross and wrong and whatever, and _I know_.” He gave a heavy sigh and fell silent, arms folded as a tight defense against his chest, eyes watching the minute hand tick closer to 2:15. 

Delicately, Arnold sat forward, folding his hands atop his desk. His finger brushed for his wedding ring, though he hadn’t been wearing it anymore. “Do you think it’s possible that you’re projecting?” 

Jimmy didn’t snap at him, which was a relief. Instead he just asked what Arnold meant, without removing his eyes from the clock. 

“I wouldn’t say ‘gross and wrong.’ There’s no need to burden yourself with extra shame for what seems like an understandable situation.” Arnold chose his words carefully, but Jimmy still turned to him with disbelief. Arnold backtracked, holding up his hands and tacking on, “Of course, these are not emotions you should _ever_ act on. But you have them nonetheless, and we should talk about that.” 

Cautiously, he proceeded. “You experienced a loss—football, in your case—and you felt a loss of identity. You found solace in your art class, maybe even in Miss Ionatti’s support. So you may be imagining that Miss Ionatti is the solution to your problems, or attempting to find new identity in a place where you find comfort and understanding.” 

To Arnold’s great relief, Jimmy seemed to be nodding in understanding. His gaze had moved from the clock to the floor—which Arnold thought was somewhat of an improvement, even if he was still avoiding eye contact altogether. “I never thought of it like that,” Jimmy said at last. 

“Well,” Arnold said with an amused smirk, “I am the one who gets paid for this.” 

Jimmy gave a laugh that was more like an exhale. “Not enough though, right?” he joked. 

Rather than answer the question—true though it may have been—Arnold fixed Jimmy with an intent look. “You know,” he began, “I think it’s important to like a person for who they are, rather than for what you imagine they can do for you.” 

Jimmy nodded. “Yeah. Sounds like good advice,” he said with a resigned sigh. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to drift from the room entirely. “Yeah,” he said again, with more resolution. “You’re right.” 

Arnold grinned again, as the bell rang and Jimmy thanked him and left to catch his bus. With his office empty, Arnold turned his attention back to his computer screen, where Jimmy’s files were still open. He glanced at the scanned letter of recommendation from Angela, inwardly pleased to have nipped that uncomfortable circumstance in the bud. As he closed the files, something on Jimmy’s transcript caught his eye. 

Jimmy’s English grades. There were all A’s so far, in a neat little column typed beside “12 Grade English, M. Rohan.”  

His own words seemed to hang in the room, left behind in Jimmy’s wake _._

* * *

Meyer jogged up the stairs to Charlie’s apartment. The two flights of stairs were narrow but familiar. For one embarrassing summer after 4th grade, Charlie and Meyer had spent three months pretending they were rock climbers on an expedition from the first floor to the third where Charlie lived. The neighbors had been tolerant of their antics, but Charlie’s mother fretted over them playing on the floor and worried about them falling. They never listened, but they never hurt themselves either—not much, at least. 

He had only climbed one flight when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Meyer paused on the landing, leaning back against the wall. He shifted the straps of his heavy backpack as he glanced at the text. It was from Frank. _Hey gorgeous. Whatcha up to?_

Meyer smiled—though he was equal parts flattered and confused. Nobody ever thought he was gorgeous before. It was embarrassing that something like that even mattered to him, however minutely. But he supposed it made a nice change to be admired, after being friends with Benny and Charlie for all those years. Neither of them seemed to have any shortage of attention.

All the same, he didn’t know why Frank was asking. He thought he told him about his plans earlier—or that he would have realized Meyer’s habits by then. He and Charlie hung out almost every Thursday. The location changed. Sometimes Meyer went to Charlie's, usually Charlie came to Meyer's, or sometimes they went to the movies or wandered around together. It was a standing agreement of their friendship, dating back to when they were young and both of Charlie's parents worked late on Thursdays. Despite the small handful that Charlie had been, Meyer's mother was always happy to have him over. She said he was a breeze compared to Benny, who might as well have been her third son anyway. They were both always welcome—and always over.

On that day, Meyer was a little late getting to Charlie's, because he had to pick up Esther from the bus and walk her home. But once she was home safe and had a snack, Jake could look after her until their mom got home.

He typed a quick text to Frank, saying that he was hanging out with Charlie. He waited a moment on the stairs, watching as it showed Frank typing, stopping, then typing again. He wanted to finish up their conversation before he went in, to avoid the risk of Charlie’s eyes wandering to his screen. After his conversation with Benny earlier, he figured it was time he told Charlie, too. He didn't want Charlie to find out from Benny—or from looking at his phone—and get insulted that he hadn't been told personally. Meyer also figured it would be easier if he told Charlie upfront, in case Charlie didn't like the idea of Meyer dating a guy. It was a concern, but maybe one he could manage better if he told him under the right circumstances.

It took Frank a surprisingly long amount of time to reply. But all he said was, "Oh right. Forgot." Meyer hesitated, unsure if there was anything more he needed to say. He answered Frank’s question, didn’t he? Still, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Frank expected something more from him. But what else was there to say about it? It was Thursday, after all.

In any case, the straps of his backpack were digging into his shoulders. He didn't want to stand around for too much longer—in case Charlie's mother's fear of him toppling down their stairs finally came true, as his backpack and gravity conspired against him. He hurried up the last flight to the third floor. As soon as he rounded the corner, he could hear voices—muffled through the walls, but sharp, angry—and these were as familiar as the stairs to Charlie’s apartment.

Meyer knocked as loud as he could to interrupt. It only took a moment before Charlie wrenched the door open. His face brightened as soon as he saw Meyer. He ducked aside muttering, “Come in.” He didn’t say much else until they were in Charlie and his brother's room with the door closed behind them. "Hi," he finally said, with a too-big smile. Charlie didn't like anyone worrying about him.

Meyer returned the greeting, as he dropped his backpack to the ground with a thud. He sat down on Charlie's unmade bed, as Charlie flopped down beside him. 

“So. How much shit you gotta do tonight?” he asked as he nudged Meyer’s backpack with his bare foot.

Meyer shrugged and leaned back on his elbows. “Quantity of shit to do—plenty. Quantity of shit that’s going to happen tonight—probably none. That’s what homeroom’s for.” He'd hate himself for it tomorrow, but it was the end of the week and Meyer's motivation for working outside of school was dwindling. The "must get this done" stress would kick in as each class approached, but he could deal with that later.

Charlie beamed. He always liked when he took precedence over homework, seeing as he did so little of his own. In all honesty, Charlie liked when he took precedence over most things—and Meyer didn't really mind.

"You're gonna have some real buff shoulders with all that shit you lug around," Charlie said. He reached up and gripped the top of Meyer's shoulder, giving a squeeze that was half-curiosity and half-massage. Meyer tensed in surprise.  

"I guess buff shoulders are better than a broken back," he said, leaning against the bedroom wall. His mother always fretted about the spinal damage caused by his workload. "Did your math test go okay?" Although Charlie didn't have much motivation for succeeding in school, he still wanted to pass. Meyer had been helping him cram that morning on the bus.

Charlie shrugged. "Went okay, I guess. I had a thing with AR the period before, and he let me go over all the stuff you taught me, so I think I got enough of 'em right."

"That was nice of him." It was good that AR seemed to have a loose—if not unconventional—approach to his job. In the long run, Meyer thought that was probably better for Charlie. Having study hall instead of guidance sessions was certainly not what they were supposed to do, but Meyer was glad that Charlie seemed to be benefiting.

"What about you?" Charlie asked, rolling onto his stomach. He supported his chin on his forearms, glancing up at Meyer. “You have a good day?”

Apart from a ton of reading for AP US, a surprising and somewhat stressful conversation with Benny, and a giant knot in his shoulders—yes, it had been alright. The talk with Benny stuck in his mind and immediately his nerves kicked up. He promised himself that once he told Benny, he’d tell Charlie, too. Meyer sighed. Rip it off like a band aid, right? “Yeah, um—I guess there’s one update—“

The door opened. “Hey guys,” Bart greeted as he flopped down on his bed.

Charlie groaned. “You can’t knock? I could’a been naked!”

“You’re always naked,” Bart shot back. “And it’s my room. I’m not gonna fuckin’ knock.”

They bickered back and forth like that for a moment. Charlie insisted that he wasn’t _always_ naked. Often without pants, but that was not naked. They squabbled whose room it was until Bart ended with the “it-was-my-room-first” trump card. Charlie huffed, called him an asshole, and settled his chin back on his arms.

Bart was in his second semester at the local community college and also worked somewhere nearby, but Meyer couldn’t remember where exactly. The hours he kept were sporadic and unpredictable, and even with the amount of time Meyer spent in Charlie’s room, he could never really figure out Bart’s schedule. Meyer was used to his sudden appearances—and the good-natured squabbling that followed.

On that particular day, however, Meyer wasn’t too pleased with Bart’s interruption. Maybe he could get Charlie alone after dinner to tell him? The nervousness deflated a little, but it was still there. He couldn’t shake the adrenaline rush that easily.

“You want me outta here?” Bart offered. Charlie shook his head and told him not to bother.

“But if you wanted to lend me your laptop—”

“—Nope. Need it,” Bart cut him off.  “Go buy your own.” To emphasize his point, he pulled the laptop out of his bag, along with a textbook, and booted it up. “I got shit to do. If I get all the shit done, maybe.”

In a stage whisper, Charlie said to Meyer, “He’s just scared I’m gonna see his large collection of  tentacle porn.” He grinned with wicked triumph, as Meyer snorted and Bart threw his book at him. It felt short and landed crumpled on the floor. Charlie snatched it—no doubt as a bargaining chip

Bart sighed with the heavy frustration only an older sibling could muster—as Meyer knew from his own experience. He turned to Meyer with a very serious expression. “He’s full of shit. There’s no large collection of tentacle porn.”

“Yeah, it’s more of a mid-size collection,” Charlie teased. “A work in progress, if you will.”

But Meyer folded his arms and turned to Charlie, lips pursed. “And why do you know so much about your brother’s porn collection?” he admonished.

Charlie deflated while Bart laughed. “See, this is why I like you! You can stay,” he said from across the room, grinning. “Why d’you need my laptop anyway?”

“Because,” Charlie said earnestly, ignoring Meyer’s insinuations and the shame from having a joke flipped around against you, “I saw this really good movie and I wanted to show Mey—”

“Oh my god, you’re not watchin’ _Zombeavers_ again. Don’t think your Netflix history is safe from me.”

While Charlie argued about the merits of the film, Meyer mouthed “ _Zombeavers_?” to Bart, who just shook his head and shrugged. Meyer wasn’t sure he really wanted to experience it. He knew Charlie would watch anything, but he didn’t realize that meant _anything_. Were there no standards? None at all?

In the end, Charlie lost the argument for the laptop. Bart getting his work done trumped Charlie’s desire to show Meyer terrible horror movies. In a pout, Charlie flopped back on his bed, poking Meyer in the ribs. “So. What d’you wanna do?”

“Uh. Well we could—” His phone buzzed. “Hold on, sorry.”

Meyer fished it out, tilting the screen away from Charlie. He could still feel Charlie’s curiosity as he watched him. But he didn’t want Charlie to see anything potentially _sappy_ —certainly not before they had the Frank conversation. That would be mortifying on several levels. But all Frank had to say—twenty minutes later—was, _“Have fun with Charlie.”_

_“Thanks,”_ he typed back, then added, _“Might be watching a movie about zombie beavers?”_ Hopefully that would lighten whatever strange tone their conversation was taking. Frank was usually much faster about texting back.  

Charlie inched forward on his stomach, resting his chin on Meyer’s chest. He was looking up at him with what Meyer could only describe as puppy dog eyes. _Helpful_. “Everything okay?” he asked. Meyer hoped Charlie couldn’t feel his pulse through his chin.

Meyer nodded and slipped his phone in his pocket, but it vibrated again a second later. He sighed. All Frank had to say was _“ha ha,”_ followed by _“have fun miss you <3”_ immediately after. Meyer typed _thanks_ again, while explaining to Charlie that it was just his mom, asking what time he’d be home. He had a weird feeling like Frank was mad at him—but he was also sending hearts, which was confusing. Maybe he was just distracted. They did have a lot of calc problems to do that night.

“Actually, maybe we should let Bart do his work in peace?” Meyer suggested. Bart said they didn’t have to worry about it—as Meyer and Charlie talking was an improvement over trying to work with Charlie blasting Nicki Minaj—but they’d leave him in peace. Mostly, Meyer wanted to untie the knot in his stomach and there was only one way to do it. Only it couldn’t happen with Bart in the room.

They left Bart in work in a quiet, empty room. Unfortunately Charlie’s sister had her homework spread over the kitchen table and his father was occupying the couch and the television in the adjoining living room. They glanced at one another in wordless agreement. Ducking back into Charlie’s room for only a moment, Meyer grabbed his coat as Charlie pulled a sweatshirt over his head. He tossed his phone into his backpack, smiling at the way Charlie’s hair puffed out thanks to dry winter air mixed with sweatshirt friction. 

When the little bedroom started to feel too cramped, Charlie and Meyer usually vacated in favor of the fire escape. They technically weren’t supposed to sit out there, but they’d been doing it for years without any repercussions. 

It wasn’t fair to keep Charlie in the dark. He wasn’t sure he knew the words yet, but he’d figure it out. 

* * *

There was something peaceful about the school once most of the students had left. Margaret liked its emptiness. The last afternoon buses were pulling out of the parking lot, and only a few students remained for after school clubs, rehearsals, and sports practices. A handful of students had already arrived inMargaret’s classrooms to work on their literary magazine. They were getting their latest edition back from the printer that day, which was always exciting for the students, who could look through their finalized work. 

With Valentine’s Day approaching, most of the submissions to the magazine were about love and heartbreak—which wasn’t very different from what her students usually wrote about, but this edition had a pink cover with hearts. 

“After we’ve all had a chance to look over our new edition, I thought we could start to brainstorm a theme for next month. Does that sound good?” she asked, once all of her editors arrived. 

“What about ‘new beginnings’?” Maybelle suggested. She was always brimming with ideas. “Since it’s spring?” 

“There’s a good one.” Margaret uncapped a marker and wrote ‘New Beginnings’ on the board behind her. The other editors offered one or two more ideas, which she jotted down underneath. But they had all afternoon to decide. 

In the meantime, Margaret passed each student a copy of the magazine for them to look over and take home to their parents, before the rest were distributed to other students who wanted them. “I wanted to congratulate you all. You all worked so hard and it looks beautiful.” 

Her students had even managed to wrangle their classmates into writing submissions. Margaret had been advising the magazine for a few years now, and there were many editions that showcased only the works of the editors—because it was so difficult to get other students to participate. Not that they received _many_ submissions, but with a high school literary magazine, receiving anything at all was an accomplishment. 

"I really enjoyed your piece this month, Maybelle," Margaret said as she pulled up a chair beside her. Just earlier that day, she'd been telling her father what a joy it was to have Maybelle in class and as an editor. Though she didn't have many friends in the math department, they got along well, as Chalky was equally logical and literary. "I thought you had real perspective." 

Maybelle beamed. "It was mostly just me rambling. But I'm glad you liked it!" She blushed and turned through the pages of the magazine without reading. 

With the other students absorbed in reading, Margaret said in an undertone, "You ought to include this piece in your portfolio." Maybelle had spoken to Margaret much throughout the year about pursuing creative writing in college and which schools had the most promising programs. Margaret thought she had a real gift, a unique voice, and remarkable passion. 

They spoke about schools for a moment, as Margaret asked how the application process was going, before she circled back to Maybelle's poem. "Was it... written with anyone in mind?" she prompted gently, her thoughts on a conversation from earlier. 

Maybelle blushed again. "Not really. Well, a bit. It's more about how—you know, love always has all these... _expectations_ attached to it. Like it's always supposed to mean marriage, kids, and—well, _sex_ —and I think it should just be love. However you want it."

Margaret nodded as she scanned over the stanzas once again. "It's a very thoughtful piece." And a remarkably nice change of pace from the usual unrequited reminisces and stories of broken hearts, though Margaret wouldn't say such a thing out loud. She didn't want to be discouraging to anyone. 

"Well I have a lot of thoughts," Maybelle answered with a laugh. 

The other editors had finished reading and were starting to discuss next month's theme amongst themselves. Margaret finished her conversation with Maybelle and took her place by the board, writing down everyone's thoughts and suggestions. Once they'd exhausted several topics, it was time to vote. In the end, they settled on Maybelle's original idea—New Beginnings. 

The club wrapped up and her students dispersed to either catch the late bus or catch the late buses. Margaret took a moment to tidy her classroom before leaving for the day. A few of the class copies of novels were left on desks or—worse—on the floor. She scooped them up, brushed them off, and set them carefully on the small shelves beneath the window. She needed to drop off the literary magazine at the main office, so they could distribute it, but Margaret had a lot of papers to bring home and didn't feel like making two trips. She left the box beside her desk, to deliver first thing tomorrow morning. 

She passed through the empty hallways, arms full with timed writings her students had done in class that day. A herd of young boys in gym shorts jogged by, taking laps around the school because the track was still too snowy outside. As she dodged around a  garbage can from the custodial staff, she rounded a corner and nearly dropped her stack of student papers. “Arnold!” Two sheets of paper fluttered from her grasp and he stooped quickly to retrieve them, an odd expression on his face. 

“Staying late?” he asked as she thanked him and nestled the papers back into her pile. 

“Literary magazine. I’m the advisor,” she explained. “And yourself?” 

He took a moment to consider, before finally answering, “I had a bit of organization to take care of. Getting everything in order.” 

“This doesn’t concern the… divorce, does it?” she asked in an undertone, even though they were alone and it was no great secret. Though Arnold was a private person, his distracted countenance throughout the winter had given everyone a bit of an idea to his circumstances. But none really knew quite like Margaret—a thought that did make her smile. 

But it wasn’t that, Arnold answered. Just student matters. “Are you in a hurry?” he asked with sudden purpose, and the question surprised her. 

“Well, I—No, I suppose not too great a hurry. But I can’t be home too late. The children are with a neighbor but I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

“Would you mind a quick chat?” He placed a guiding hand on the small of her back, but recoiled as soon as the tips of his fingers brushed the fabric of her cardigan. Margaret shifted her belongings. 

“If it’s quick, that should be alright,” she answered with some uncertainty. Together they meandered aimlessly down the empty hall. Margaret tucked her papers into her tote bag, squeezing them in alongside a few books and the empty tupperware from her lunch. There was something about him, something unusual, and he seemed to have something very urgent on his mind. “Is something the matter?” she prompted when Arnold remained silent. 

“No,” he said in a distant sort of way, which was hardly reassuring—or believable. They turned right and wandered past the science classrooms. “Actually, I wanted to thank you.” 

“Oh?” Now that was a surprise. “Why would that be?” 

“You’ve been a great help to me,” he explained in a tone that still sounded as though his thoughts were elsewhere. His soft voice sounded bigger than it was in the empty halls. “I do appreciate your friendship.” 

Odd though she found the situation, Margaret couldn’t help but blush. She smiled down at the scuffed tile floor, pressing her lips together to suppress a smile of her own. “I appreciate yours as well.” 

Arnold didn’t seem to hear her. Or more, he was too wrapped in his own fog to hear much besides the whirring of his own thoughts. “As I think you know, it can be a somewhat… difficult time. And you’ve always given me good advice. That’s a rare quality,” he added with a glance at her and a small smile. 

“Oh I don’t know. I expect your days must be full of good advice.” 

He chuckled. “I _try_ , at least. But I still can't give myself advice, can I?" 

With a nod, Margaret agreed, with a comment on how it was often hard to take your own advice—no matter how good it may be. In a softer voice, she added, "And often you can't see the situation as clearly when you're in the middle of it." She understood Arnold's fog. She knew what it was like to feel there was no path under your feet and no signs to guide you—and nowhere to go even if you could see your way.  They lapsed again into silence, doubling back down the hallway and turning this time down past the math rooms. 

“And I did want to apologize,” Arnold said so abruptly Margaret stopped short.  

She quickly found her lost step and fell into stride with him again, holding her voice steady as she asked why. 

Now, it was Arnold’s turn to stop. He paused in the hallway, facing her but not meeting her eye. She knew him to be an intelligent man, but as lunchtime solitaire matches had taught her, he was not one particularly adept at admitting his mistakes. 

He began with a deep breath. “If I have said or done anything inappropriate over the course of our friendship…” he trailed off. Margaret went to pat his arm in reassurance, then thought better of it and retracted her hand. 

She had often sensed too much fondness in his gaze, but chose to believe—because it was simpler—that it was mere friendship. She knew it hadn't been the case, not entirely, but she had enjoyed their talks too much to put a stop to it all herself. But Arnold was presenting the opportunity, and she knew what she had to do. “You were going through a difficult time. Sometimes we don’t always act like ourselves,” she said in a soft, firm voice. 

He looked up at her, surprising clarity in his eyes. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw a hopeful openness—an expectation that she might assuage his concerns and welcome his advances. But then the mysterious, immoveable fog fell again across his face and she could no longer tell what was going on within. She thought it might have been resolve. 

“It’s never easy to lose someone you love. It can take time to move on, before you’re ready for... “ she hesitated, still unwilling to give it voice. “Before you’re ready for life again,” she quickly finished. 

Arnold nodded, lowering his gaze. He resumed walking, and Margaret hurried to follow. “How long?” he asked suddenly in a low voice.  

“Pardon?”  

“Moving on. How long does it take?” There was something hard, almost desperate, in his tone. 

With a sigh, she answered, “I’ll let you know when I find out.” 

He glanced at her and she held his gaze. She could feel his curiosity, though he would never ask. Part of her wanted to speak at last, though she was long practiced in maintaining silence. They both preferred their privacy, didn’t they? Perhaps that’s what made them such good company for one another. They both had their own forms of intuition, a bond through what could often remain unspoken. But Margaret wondered if they had reached a point where the silence could not persist. "Arnold, perhaps it's only fair if I—" 

Someone giggled. 

Margaret and Arnold both turned to stare down the empty hallway, looking for the source of the laughter. “Did you hear…?” She certainly had nothing to laugh about in that moment, nor did Arnold. 

He nodded, held a finger to his lips, and already set off down the hallway, walking lightly. Margaret hesitated, glancing down at her low heels. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped them off and followed after Arnold, sliding slightly on the smooth tile.  

One door stood ajar at the end of the hallway. “Arnold—” she whispered, but he gestured again to be quiet. Margaret sighed—quietly—before following after him. As far as she was concerned, he was being wholly ridiculous. It was likely a custodian, or a teacher staying after to grade papers, or even a club that had not yet adjourned. There was no need to act so stealthy—or so silly. 

As they neared, they heard the laughter again. This time, she could tell that it belonged to a physics teacher whose laughter was unmistakeable. She knew that Arnold was not on the best of terms with Mickey, but she still didn’t see what he hoped to achieve by sneaking up on him. 

Although… It dawned on her that they were in the math hallway, far from Mickey’s own classroom. The setting did strike her as odd, though that still didn't justify all the espionage. Arnold seemed to have no such qualms, as he paused by the door, near the wall and out of sight. Margaret stood beside him, brows furrowed. 

“You’d be surprised what this stuff’ll go for,” she heard Mickey say. He laughed again, among the rustle of papers. “Well, helps pay the rent, at least.” Another giggle.  

There was an exasperated sigh, followed by a lower voice saying, “Just grab a few and let’s get outta here.” 

A pause. A drawer sliding. The lower voice asking, “Mickey?” 

“Now here’s what we’re really lookin’ for...” he replied, slightly sing-song. 

“A bunch of pencils? An eraser maybe? Stop rooting around, will you? C’mon.” 

“Well maybe I’ll just take your cut, Eli, if that’s your attitude.” 

Margaret and Arnold exchanged glances with one another. She wasn’t certain she understood what she was hearing—or why they were standing still as statues, eavesdropping. But Arnold looked as though the wheels were turning, so she stayed quiet, committing each comment she heard to memory. 

“Graphing calculators cost a pretty penny.” 

“He’s gonna notice, Mick. Stop.” 

“Not if it’s only a couple. Besides, who’s to say some kid didn’t take ‘em? But we grab a few from each math class… Starts addin’ up real quick.”  

Margaret jumped as Arnold’s hand closed around her wrist. He nodded down the hall and they hurried away together. Margaret grabbed her shoes as they passed, but didn’t put them on until they were out of the math wing and back in the main hallway. “What was that about?” she demanded, as breathless as if she’d run a few laps with the wrestling team.

“Have you noticed anything missing from your classroom?” Arnold asked instead.  

“Mine? No, not at—well, a few novels from each set, but that’s hardly unexpected—” 

Arnold didn’t seem to be listening. “Of course, what’s a paperback to a textbook? Chalky did say he was missing a number of books. But how lucrative could that be—"  

“Do you mean to tell me,” Margaret interrupted, shooting Arnold a stern look, “that two members of our faculty—one of whom is the _brother_ of our superintendent—are stealing textbooks and, what, selling them?” 

She was incredulous, but Arnold only nodded and said that seemed to be the case. 

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” she protested. 

“Eli does have eight children. College tuition is expensive,” Arnold pointed out. 

Margaret huffed. “It’s absurd! It’s… it’s practically satire!” She refused to believe something so ridiculous—not to mention such libel against her co-workers. She couldn’t imagine anyone stealing supplies meant for the students, for whatever meagre financial gain could come of it. It was selfish and wrong and, frankly, downright harebrained. 

“It could be more than that,” Arnold noted. “Gym equipment is costly. Eli has access. Mickey has keys to the science department supply closet. I did hear Gyp complaining about a lack of supplies for his chemistry class but, I thought that was just Gyp being his usual self… _That_ could be profitable if arranged correctly.” 

Margaret scoffed. “This isn’t _Breaking Bad_ , Arnold!"  

He shot her a look that suggested he did not understand, continuing to rattle off possible situations. Chemicals, sports equipment, textbooks, anything. “With what these supplies do cost… Education is a racket. I’m not surprised if it adds up rather quickly.”

He was speaking in a rush, as though the wheels in his head were turning through the situation and analyzing it from every angle, faster than his mouth could report. Margaret shook her head. She wasn’t entirely certain the whole afternoon hadn’t been some bizarre daydream, some vivid Tom Stoppard hallucination. 

“I’m afraid I must be getting home, to the real world. I’ll leave you to ponder these circumstances,” she said and Arnold looked around as though he were seeing her at last. 

“Right. Of course,” he said. After a pause, he added, “Thank you for your company. I appreciated our conversation.” 

Margaret nodded and mumbled some agreement, before saying goodbye and heading towards the parking lot. Her afternoon had gone from strange to stranger and she had much to think over. Despite the bizarre event with Mickey and Eli, she couldn’t help but focus on her conversation with Arnold before.

* * *

“My ass is gonna go numb,” Charlie muttered. He shifted, leaning back against the wall and bringing his knees up to his chest. Maybe if he only his feet were touching the cold metal of the fire escape, it wouldn’t be so bad? 

Charlie spent a lot of time out there, regardless of the weather. Mostly when it was too much inside, or when he just needed a little quiet, he’d climb out and sit. But it was nicer there with Meyer. He always felt like the rest of the world stopped existing on the fire escape. He shifted closer. 

“My nose is already numb,” he complained. “Feel it.” He leaned over in one quick motion and pressed the tip of his nose against Meyer’s cheek until his nostrils were flat. “See? Frozen,” he rambled, voice nasally. 

He expected Meyer to push him off with a sarcastic comment, but he didn’t say anything except, “Should we go back in?” 

“No,” he answered immediately. His breath puffed in a fog against Meyer’s shoulder, but he never wanted to move again, not when they were just sitting against each other like that. They could be touchy sometimes, but only because they’d been friends for so long. But the pounding in Charlie’s chest had him wondering— _hoping_ —that maybe it wasn’t just that. He fidgeted with the zipper of his sweatshirt, then let his hands drop—one lying limp against Meyer’s thigh, palm up, fingers-not-quite-closed in a hopeful invitation. 

Meyer cleared his throat. “Charlie?” 

Oh fuck. Maybe he wasn’t imagining, maybe there really was something. Or maybe he was just going to call Charlie out, to ask what the fuck was going on. He curled his fingers tight and shifted, pulling back a little just in case, and said “Yeah?” 

“I—Well—” He sighed and shrugged, staring across at the brick wall of the next apartment building. “Never mind. It’s nothing.” 

Charlie sat up and turned to face him, crossing his legs. He pressed Meyer for more, watching him intently. He didn’t feel the cold anymore. He didn’t really feel anything—the way his mouth went dry, the thudding in his whole body, the feeling like he was about to fall off the side of a cliff but in a _really good way._ It could have been anything Meyer wanted to say… But they were sitting out there alone, so close together… And maybe he was just projecting, but something in his gut told him otherwise. 

Maybe if Meyer couldn’t spit it out, he’d say it first. It would be so easy to maybe ask him to prom; he could always tack on “as a friend” after if he took it badly. And by “so easy,” he really meant “terrifying,” but somehow the more anxious he grew by waiting, the simpler it would seem to just let the words come.  

“You can tell me, okay?” he said, gently prodding Meyer’s knee. He smiled, tried to look nonchalant about it, even though he was ready to explode with suspense and curiosity. “No matter what.”  

Meyer didn’t look up at him, but he pressed his knee back against Charlie’s hand with a breathy half-laugh. “I just don’t want it to change anything, I guess.”  

Oh _fuck_. 

“It won’t, I promise,” Charlie blurted before he could stop himself. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands. He didn’t want to cut Meyer off, but he wanted him to know that it was okay, that he was seconds away from “me too!” and that his heart was hammering the same way. 

Meyer glanced at him, his smile fond. Charlie wanted to grab his face and kiss it. He resisted. For now. 

“You staring at me like that is not going to help,” Meyer said, with his familiar wry look. 

Charlie smirked and slapped his hand theatrically over his eyes, peeking between his fingers. “Better?” 

“Not really. But thanks for trying.” He felt Meyer’s hand on his, pulling it away from his face. Charlie’s fingers curled slightly around his hand, but Meyer let go.   

“Alright, I won’t stare. How’s that?” Charlie shifted so that he was beside Meyer again, back against the wall of his house. He stretched out his legs, knocking the toes of his sneakers against the railing. They sat like that for a while, both staring straight ahead. He could feel the warmth from Meyer's thigh, pressed up against Charlie's own leg, his whole body too aware of every movement. 

“I like someone, alright?” Meyer finally said, with all the agitation that his nervousness had built. “I like someone and I don’t want—I don’t want you to feel weird about it . Or not want to hang out anymore…” He lost his gusto by the end and fell into silence. Charlie glanced at him, but looked away in a hurry—upholding his promise about not staring. Meyer was busy watching his hands, which were clenched tightly in his lap. 

Charlie's heart raced. Meyer was going to say it, wasn’t he? Why else would he be worried about making things weird? Charlie was terrified and expectant and overjoyed all at the same time. He wouldn’t let himself believe it yet, but he couldn’t imagine anything else. Determined to seem calm, he let his head rest atop Meyer’s. “You’re gonna be my friend no matter what, okay?” 

Charlie felt him nod. Meyer inhaled, held his breath, and then said in a rush, “I’m dating Frank Capone.”  

“ _What_?” He sat up. He turned. He stared. No, that wasn’t—that was _not where that conversation was going a second ago._ “You’re… dating…?” His mouth hung open and he wasn’t sure if he was even breathing. He felt like he’d fallen off the cliff without realizing it and had already hit the ground.   

Meyer couldn’t be dating _Frank Capone_. The fact that Meyer was open to dating boys barely registered. That alone should have been a triumphant discovery, but Charlie couldn’t think about anything other than _Frank Capone_. Frank Capone was _not_ Charlie and therefore that was not acceptable. Panic and jealousy and despair all gripped him, tight around his lungs. “Since _when_?” he demanded, harsher than he meant it. 

Meyer wouldn’t look at him. “Almost two months. He asked me out over break,” he muttered, colder than the metal beneath them.  

The tone shook Charlie from his shock. “Well… congratulations,” he said weakly. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold back the tumult in his chest. He wanted to vomit off the edge of the fire escape, but some part of him—some instinctual part that he could only conjure in the midst of something so big—took over to squash it down. Because he knew how Meyer felt in that moment. He knew the fear and the worry and the suspense that filled the silence. 

He smiled as much as he could manage. He hugged Meyer, because he could already feel the cracks in his own smile threatening to break, and gave him a tight squeeze. “I want you to be happy,” he said. It sounded corny, but it was the only thing he could think to say that was actually true. “But he better treat you right or I’ll kick his ass,” he teased as he let go. The thought of breaking Frank’s nose sounded wonderful. 

Meyer returned the smile and Charlie could see that he had relaxed. “Don’t worry, I’d kick his own ass if I had to.”  

Charlie’s laugh was genuine, momentarily placated by Meyer’s expressed willingness to kick his boyfriend’s ass. The bubble burst again as soon as the word “boyfriend” drifted into his mind. His lungs squeezed tighter. 

“I guess he just… makes me feel special?” Meyer murmured after a pause. He was back to staring at his hands. “Does that make sense?”  

Charlie glanced down at him. “Yeah.” 

Meyer nodded more in contemplation than in agreement, as he brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “Thanks for not being weird about it,” he said without looking at him. “It helps.”  

If only he knew. But Charlie shrugged. He couldn't find the words or the voice to tell Meyer the truth—or the partial truth. He couldn't come out then. He'd make things too weird if he did.  “Of course. Like I said, you’re my best friend.” 

They smiled at each other. Meyer seemed like he believed him. He had that look of fondness Charlie liked so much—where his eyes got all big and clear, his lips curved in the gentlest smile. Despite the ache, Charlie couldn’t help but smile at a face like that. Meyer gave a light laugh—which sounded something like relief—and glanced down. “Still, I—You’re—” He shook his head as the grin widened and in the end, all Meyer said was, “Charlie.” 

He was Charlie. He was Meyer’s best friend. And maybe there wasn’t anything special enough about him to be Meyer’s boyfriend, too. But he was Charlie and they were friends and Meyer trusted him. It didn’t stop the vomit feeling, but at least it was something to hold on to. 

“So. Maybe _Zombeavers_ after dinner?” Charlie asked, forcing a grin. Meyer laughed and agreed. 

They settled back into silence after that. Charlie let his head drop back onto to Meyer’s—just so he knew that nothing was different. It might have been comfortable under other circumstances. As the adrenaline faded, he felt the bite of the cold air more keenly and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand as it started to run with the chill. 

They sat like that until his sister came to call them for dinner. Charlie wasn’t hungry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter five on [tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/129454622164/nobody-wants-to-be-in-school-forever-chapter-five)


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